Opening Day
by Brighid45
Summary: Sixteenth story in the Treatment 'verse. THIS SERIES IS AU TO CANON starting at the end of S5, and has House no longer in New Jersey or Princeton; contains OC characters. 'The only constant in life is change'-as House, Roz, Sarah and others are about to find out. Drama, humor, OC romance. Rated T for language etc. Epilogue for this story now posted. Please read and review, thanks.
1. Chapter 1

**_(So we begin another story in the Treatment 'verse. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Thanks to all who have guest-reviewed my work, and favorited my stories and/or me as an author. As always, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful for your kindness. It's great fun to write House fic, and as long as the muse continues to whisper in my ear, I'll keep posting. -B)_**

_February 1st_

_10:30 a.m._

Sarah climbed into the minivan, pulled the door shut and sat there. Bright sunshine shone from a brilliantly blue sky, highlighting road-grime spots on the windshield. She stared at them, then smacked the steering wheel. "Son of a _bitch_," she muttered, and started up the engine.

On the long drive home she brooded silently over the humiliation of the past two hours. The more she thought about it, the more it stung her. What the hell was she supposed to do now? All her plans were in disarray, ruined, blown up, smoking rubble . . . She snorted at her drama-queen histrionics and concentrated on finding the right exit. While her imagery might be a little overblown, the sentiment was spot on, as Prof would say. Prof . . . her heart sank. She'd have to tell him about this; she didn't even want to think about the rich pickings this would offer her analyst. The realization came along with another one—she'd just missed her exit.

It took her half an hour longer to get home than she'd planned. By the time she arrived she barely had time to change out of her suit and heels and into her work clothes. She gave in to a childish whim and hurled her jacket and skirt into a corner, even though she knew it would cost her a dry cleaning bill she could ill afford at the moment. For good measure the shoes followed. "The_ hell_ with it," she said under her breath, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

When she arrived at work, Lou was in the kitchen. He took one look at her and without comment, made himself scarce. Sarah put on her apron, tied a bandana on her head and washed her hands, only to find there were no paper towels in the dispenser. She stalked to the supply closet, grabbed a roll and stuffed it into place, yanked on the first sheet and watched the entire roll detach itself and bound across the kitchen, unwinding with merry abandon the whole way. Sarah closed her eyes and counted to ten, fury threatening to make her explode like a stick of dynamite. At last she gathered up the toweling and stuffed it in the trash, put another roll on the dispenser, turned on her heel and found Lou, who was hiding at the front station, counting silverware.

"I know I just got here, but I need to call someone," she said, struggling to keep her tone calm. "How-how about I make it an early break and work straight through the rest of my hours?"

Lou gave her an assessing glance. "Okay," he said. Sarah nodded.

"Thanks."

She ended up perched on a stool at the prep table, phone in hand. Prof answered in two rings.

"Sarah, my love! What a delight to hear from you on such a beautiful sunlit Friday. How are you?"

"You should be careful about asking loaded questions," Sarah said, but she already felt a little better just on hearing his voice. "I'm—I'm a little, um . . . oh hell, I'm a walking disaster. How are you?"

Gordon chuckled. "I think we'd do best to stay with your well-being, for the moment at least. Fortunately you've caught me at an opportune time. Are you at home? May we speak at length?"

"I'm at work, but my boss gave me an early break. Well . . . I told him I was taking one," she amended. _Might as well be honest from the start_.

"I see. So what has you all het up, my sweeting? Advise me as to details."

Sarah hesitated. "This is gonna sound so stupid."

"Come come, you know me better than that. Unburden yourself, dear girl. You'll feel all the better for it." Gordon sounded impatient, but kind with it.

She sighed. "Yeah. Okay." She took a breath. "This morning . . . I had my appointment with the state board—you know, to get my license to practice renewed."

"Ah, that's wonderful news!" He paused. "Isn't it?"

"Well . . ." She fidgeted. "They want me to take a class."

"I see . . . ?" Sarah heard the question in the statement.

"Prof, they want me to go back to school!" Renewed indignation consumed her for a moment. "Like I'm some-some _kid_ fresh out of a for-profit college or something! I have three degrees, dammit! Three degrees I half-killed myself to get! I'm a PhD and I keep up with the latest advances, you _know_ I do! What the hell do I need to go back to school for? It's fucking _ridiculous!_"

There was a little silence after her outburst. "All right," Gordon said at last, his tone mild. "How much school are we talking about, exactly?"

"One class." She winced when she said it. "To start with."

"Hmm . . . well, you'll forgive me for saying this, my dear, but this seems extraordinarily reactionary. To be truthful, you're the last person I'd think would be upset by this-"

Sarah's anger rekindled. "Well I am! It's—it's not like I've been gone from active work for decades!"

"No, but it has been a few years," Prof said in a reasonable tone that set her teeth on edge. "I suspect this is a broad requirement that isn't aimed at you personally, Sarah."

"It's bullshit," she snapped. "I may not have been sitting in an office with a secretary keeping track of my appointments but I was still workin', dammit! Ask Greg House!"

Gordon sighed. "Oh, my. There's a great deal going on here, isn't there?" Sarah growled. "Now now, my dear girl. You know it's true. Why don't we talk about your _contretemps_ with the board in detail later this evening? My schedule offers a window of opportunity somewhere between nine and eleven, would that do?"

Sarah sniffed, then sighed. "Yeah, okay." She picked a bit of lint off her apron. Apologies were in order and she knew it. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"My inordinately lovely girl of the auburn curls, you are fully as entitled as anyone else on the planet to be stroppy when the mood comes over you. Are you all right? Do you have something to keep you occupied until we can talk later?" The quiet concern, paired with his knowledge of her, helped her calm down a little.

"Yes and yes, thank you," she said. "I'm at Lou's doing prep and orders until Jason gets here, then Marge will take over."

"Very good. However, I most humbly beg you, avoid the temptation to decapitate your erstwhile employer, if you would? He's only a man, please do keep that in mind. Besides, the world would be a sad shadow of its former self without Poppi Lou's _bagna cauda_ . . . which, by the by, is a recipe he hasn't imparted to me as of yet."

Sarah had to smile a little. "I'll see if I can pry it out of him. Thanks, Prof."

"You're quite welcome, my dear."

She sat in the quiet kitchen for a few moments, assessing her state of mind. She felt a little better, but still antsy and edgy—spoiling for a fight, as her grandma Bailey would say. There was a part of her that loved nothing more than a good barney; no doubt she'd inherited that trait from both parents, as her mother and father had actually enjoyed the verbal and physical assaults they'd perpetrated on each other. She wanted nothing so violent, but getting into a good heated argument with someone, now that held tremendous appeal at the moment.

"You here to sit or work?" Lou stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching her. Sarah counted to three. _Not him and not now_, she scolded, _behave yourself, Corbett_, and stood up.

"Work," she said. "Thanks, Lou." She forced herself to make it a polite thank you. Lou snorted.

"I don't know why you're worried about going back to school," he said. "You're more than smart enough to ace any class they make you take."

Sarah struggled between exasperation at his eavesdropping and gratitude at his compliment. "Thanks," she said again. "Prof wants your _bagna cauda_ recipe."

"Tell him he has to come down here to get it. Then he can trade me for his Yorkshire pudding." He eased away from the door and left her to her tasks.

By the time Jason arrived she was in a slightly better mood. Still, she knew the results of her morning showed when her son came to the kitchen door and stopped. His dark eyes widened, and the expression in them moved from pleasure to wariness.

"Hey," he said, quite plainly testing the waters. Sarah wiped a smear of olive oil from the back of her hand and gave him a smile.

"Hey, sweetheart," she said. "How was school?"

"Okay. What's wrong?" He stayed where he was. A little ache of sadness went through her because she understood all too well why he did it.

"Had a tough morning. Nothing to do with you," she said, and moved to the wash station. "I will say this though, we're bringin' home pizza tonight. I need some time off cookin'." She wasn't about to confess that any attempt at making dinner in her own kitchen would probably end up in disaster; she'd narrowly avoided two catastrophes just cutting up vegetables and making dough during her shift. "Anyway, Dad's coming home a little later this afternoon, I'd rather spend time with him tonight."

The wariness faded a little. "Yeah. That's sounds good." He unzipped his coat. "I'll ask Poppi if I can help you finish up."

"Of course you can," Lou said as he always did when Jason asked him. "It's good training. A man should know his way around a kitchen." He ruffled Jason's hair and grinned at him. "Besides, your mama needs a little spoiling, she's had a tough day, all that driving so early and bad news."

"Bad news?" Jason looked at her, alarmed. "What bad news?"

"Poppi's teasing me," Sarah said. She filched an olive slice off the pizza she was making and munched it. "It wasn't bad news, it was just—something I didn't want to hear."

"Like what?" Jason began spreading cheese over the other two pizzas. He distributed it evenly over the dough with a masterly hand, not using too much or too little. Sarah admired his work; Lou's lessons had found a good home.

"I have to go back to school."

Jason glanced up at her. "But you've been to college already." He set aside the cheese container and picked up the herb-blend shaker.

"It's called continuing education," Sarah said with some reluctance. "It's a way to keep up on what's new, what's changed." Put that way, she had to face the fact that her petulance was unreasonable, which only made her more resentful.

"Okay," Jason said. He began to put the oregano, basil and rosemary seasoning on the cheese. "That's a good idea. Isn't it?"

Sarah sighed. "Yes."

"But you don't want to do it."

She fought the urge to lie. "No, I don't."

Jason set aside the shaker and picked up the pepperoni container. "Why not? It's just school."

Sarah couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of her. Trust her son to put everything in perspective with the minimum amount of words. "You're right, sweetheart. Let's talk about it later, okay?"

Jason nodded. "Okay. We should do one pizza with a bunch of pepperoni for Dad, he'll like that."

"You will too, you stinker." Sarah dared to lean in and kiss the top of his head. Jason spared her a pained look.

"_Mom_."

"Yeah, all right. I just couldn't resist." For good measure she gave him another kiss and grinned at his disgusted groan. "I'm sorry. You're just irresistible."

Jason glared at her. "Try harder to resist," he groused, and threw a pepperoni at her when she laughed.

They brought home three large pizzas, a double order of fries and some _antipasto_—the last item mainly a salve for Sarah's conscience if no one else's. When they pulled into the driveway it was to find Minnie Lou in her accustomed place. That meant Gene was home, as he'd taken the truck to the airport in place of a rental car, another reduction in the household budget. Sarah hoped her vehicle had behaved herself.

Gene was crashed out on the couch, but roused as they came in. He took the bags from Sarah, set them aside and eased her into his arms for a lengthy, tender kiss. She held him close, taking comfort in his embrace.

"Hey." He rubbed her back. "What's wrong? Was I gone too long?" His concern warmed her.

"No—well, yeah you were, but I'm not upset about that. I mean, I was, but . . ." She sighed a little. "Can we talk about it later? It's not a big deal, just—just me being stupid."

"Huh. I'll be the judge of that." He kissed her forehead. "'Elenore, gee I think you're swell,'" he whisper-sang. Sarah pulled back from him. This was an old routine between the two of them, one they both enjoyed despite appearances to the contrary.

"You're _not_ gonna sing that damn song!" she hissed.

"'You got a thing about you/I just can't live without you/I really want you, Elenore, near me,'" he sang. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Gene—"

"'Your looks intoxicate me/even though your folks hate me/there's no one like you, Elenore, really'-"

"_Stop it!_" Giggling, she escaped his clutches, grabbed the bags and scurried off to the kitchen. He followed her, his voice risen to dramatic proportions.

"'Elenore, gee I think you're swell/and you really do me well/you're my pride and joy et cetera—'"

Sarah put the _antipasto_ on the counter, got out a cookie sheet and dumped the fries on it. "I'm not listening!"

"'I really think you're groovy/let's go out to a movie/what do you say now, Elenore, can we?'" Gene tried to slip his arms around her waist but she squirmed away, opened the oven door and shoved the fries inside. She caught a glimpse of Jason in the doorway, watching them with a blend of amusement, curiosity and apprehension that told her all she needed to know about how he felt.

"'They'll turn the lights way down low/maybe we won't watch the show' . . ." He captured her this time. "'I think I love you Elenore, love me,'" he sang softly in her ear, and followed it with a kiss that made her melt. She brought her arms up and hugged him close to her.

"Love you too," she said, "Eugene Michael, you rotten tease," and she kissed him in return.

"_Ick_," Jason said, and retreated into the living room. Gene laughed against her lips.

"We freaked out our son. Nice work," he said, smiling.

They had dinner in the kitchen with the radio tuned to the NPR station, while snow fell in slow, twisting veils past the window. "Forecast says we're gonna get a big storm Sunday night," Jason said through a mouth full of pizza.

"Oh boy," Sarah said. Now it was her turn to be a tease. "You know what that means." She ignored Gene's snort. "'No school tomorrow, no school tomorrow, no school tomorrow if it snows'—"

"_Mom!_ That dumb song's for second graders!" Jason glared at her, but she saw reluctant amusement in his dark eyes.

"I'll remind you of that when you're sitting up in bed glued to your phone to see if the announcement's come in," Sarah said. "How bad is it supposed to be?"

"About a foot of snow, and strong winds." Jason took a black olive from the antipasto plate and popped it in his mouth. Sarah's good humor dimmed.

"We'll lose power," she said. "We'd better spend tomorrow and Sunday getting ready." After a moment Gene moved closer, put his hand on her back, rubbed it. She enjoyed the comfort he offered.

"I say we go to the movies tomorrow," Gene said. "One of my clients handed out free passes at our last meeting because we had some rough spots during the consult. I took a bunch of 'em because it just so happens it's the chain that owns our local movie house. So let's have some fun. We don't need to do that much to get ready, just bring in more firewood and fill buckets for the bathrooms."

Sarah noted the casual reference to what must have been a considerable difficulty in the course of the consultation. She'd ask him about it later. "Okay," she said aloud. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Wicked," Jason said, and attacked a huge pile of fries slathered with ketchup. Sarah was reminded of her oldest boy, which led to another thought.

"We could invite Greg and Roz to stay over on Sunday. And Clare and the babies," she said. Jason rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"Full house," Gene said. His green eyes sparked with humor. "You just like bein' a surrogate grandma." He picked up another slice of pizza. "We'd need to pick up some extra milk and coffee."

"I could blend some food for the little ones now and have it on hand." Sarah glanced at Jason. "How do you feel about this?" she asked quietly.

"You both already made up your minds." Jason hunched his shoulders, but Sarah sensed his opposition had weakened. "Why bother to ask?"

"We haven't made up our minds. This is a discussion," Gene said. "If you have serious objections to people staying with us, please tell us what they are and we'll talk about it."

Jason looked at him, then Sarah. "We don't need more people here if our budget is so tight," he said.

"That's a good point." Gene munched some pizza. "I still believe having those families stay with us might be a good idea, though. What do you think we could do to offset the cost if we do decide to have them stay?"

Jason considered the question. "We could always ask them to pay us something," he said slowly. "But that would be kinda rude, since we invited them in the first place." He dipped a fry in ketchup and ate it. "Maybe we could have them help out with stuff—do dishes and cook or whatever they'd be good at."

Sarah glanced at Gene, who nodded. "That's an excellent idea," he said. "If we do that, would you have any objections to some guests?"

Jason gave him a piercing look. "You're not just saying that to try to get me to agree or something, are you?"

"Well yeah, but it's still an honest question," Gene said with a grin, and dunked a pizza crust in garlic butter. "What say you?"

"What if you and Mom say yes and I say no? That's two against one."

"That's two people who agree and one who doesn't," Gene said calmly. "In this case, that means we talk about it until we can reach an agreement."

"You don't do that when I ask to stay up late," Jason muttered.

"That's different," Sarah said. "There are some decisions parents make unilaterally because they're older and understand what's better for their kids. Anyway, you know that if you present a valid argument, sometimes you get to do things you wouldn't otherwise. 'Compromise' is a word your father and I understand very well."

"Yeah," Jason said with some reluctance, but his shoulders relaxed a little. "I guess . . . I guess they can come over."

"You're sure?" Gene sipped his beer. "You can think about it if you want to, there's time before we have to decide."

"Um, okay. How about . . . tomorrow morning?" Jason played with a fry. "We can all sleep on it."

"That's an excellent idea," Gene said. "Tomorrow morning it is, then."

"Agreed," Sarah said. "So what movies do we want to see? There's a bunch of really good ones out right now."

They turned the talk to other topics. Jason gave them a few suspicious looks, but eventually followed their lead. It wasn't until later, when he was helping Sarah with the dishes, that he said "I really don't need to wait until tomorrow . . . it's okay if we have people over." He wiped a plate dry and put it in the rack above the sink.

"Okay. Your dad will be glad to hear that," Sarah said. "What made you change your mind?"

Jason picked up another plate. "It's bad for little kids to be in a cold house," he said quietly. "And Roz—she's still recovering from what happened. So's House."

Sarah rinsed a handful of silverware. "All good points."

"I remember what it's like, to be cold and not have any way to get warm. We have plenty of room here, it's dumb not to help."

_Yes__!_ Sarah cheered inside. She kept her expression neutral. "That's true," she said. "Your dad will be glad to hear you've changed your mind." She offered him a smile. "Thanks, _mo ghile mear_."

Jason looked away, but Sarah could tell he was pleased. "I'll bring in some extra firewood for the other bedrooms," he said. "Dad and I will need to split some more."

"You know, maybe we should ask Greg and Roz if they'd be willing to bring over some wood," she said. "That way they'd share some of the expense with us and still benefit."

"Yeah," Jason said. "Okay." He glanced at her. "Do you want to do it?"

Sarah hid a smile at his discomfiture. "Sure, I'll ask." She put the last of the cups in the soapy water. "I can finish up here. Your dad's in the living room, I think he's planning on a video game marathon. Go have some fun, you've earned it."

Much to her surprise, Jason leaned in to kiss her cheek. He said nothing, just turned away and hung up the dish towel, then went into the living room. Sarah watched him go, glanced at the clock. She sighed a little and headed to the office. There was still plenty of time before Gordon's 'window of opportunity' call, but she had her own homework to do tonight.

The little room was chilly; she got the woodstove going and kept the door open while she booted up the computer. As she worked she could hear Gene and Jason talking, a homely sound that comforted her as she checked her inbox for the email the board member had promised her. It was there, waiting. She glared at it, then clicked it open and scanned the contents. Offerings for classes with links . . . Sarah rested her chin on her palm and looked them over. She had to admit the topics were relevant to her practice here: domestic violence, substance abuse and addiction, sexual abuse, working with children, dealing with health and insurance programs . . . She clicked the link for 'children and adolescents' and watched as an enormous number of classes popped up. "Wow," she said under her breath, impressed despite her resentment. She began to scroll through them.

She'd already begun to make a list of likely courses when the phone rang. Sarah glanced at the caller ID, and smiled. She picked up. "Hey," she said.

"Hay is for horses," Greg said. "Wife said you made a trip to the bright lights today."

Sarah knew he understood where she'd been, and why. "Yeah. All those tall four-storey buildings just blew my mind."

"Hyuk yuk yuk, you're so original." He hesitated. "What's wrong?"

That made her chuckle. Of course her oldest fosterling would pick up on her mood, just as her youngest had done, and her husband. "I guess you could say . . . well, my pride got dented a little." She sat back. "I have to start taking courses for continuing education as a condition of renewing my license."

"That's all?" Greg snorted. "Here I was thinking you had to give up a kidney, or hand over that rug rat you insist on keeping around for some reason."

"Nothing that dire. Besides, I have two kidneys."

"You say that _now_, but when they ask for the other one don't come begging for a transplant from me. My name's not Wilson."

She rolled her eyes and hid amusement. "Oh, shut up. Anyway, it—it won't be that bad. Lots of interesting courses listed at the site they sent me to."

"You did tell them you've been keeping your skills sharpened on me." He sounded tentative.

"Nope. Can't do that without mentioning your name and giving them at least the basics. I made you a promise, one I intend to keep," she said quietly. Silence fell for a moment.

"Good to know. At least you'll get your license up and running. And you'll be _bored_-certified in no time, you're the one who should be teaching them." Sarah blinked at the rare compliment and waited for the snark to follow. "Then again, this _is_ psychology. Jungian hugger-mugger, at that. I'm assuming the course materials include a goat's head and ceremonial knives."

"I should never have given you that damn notebook. My best blackmail material, gone," she mourned, and enjoyed his laugh.

"Gonna commute?" Greg asked eventually.

"Nope. Stuck with Skype and a chatroom, which should be an adventure considering the internet's down about the same amount of time it's up around here." She wasn't about to admit she'd moved from resentment to grudging interest. "Speaking of which, it looks like we've got a bad storm coming in Sunday night—"

"I don't know how you can tell," he grumbled. "Winter here is one long bad storm."

"That's true, but it'll be worse than usual. Forecast is for anywhere from one to two feet of snow and strong winds. That means power outages. Gene, Jason and I would like to invite you, Roz and Hellboy over on Sunday, to stay until the power comes back on." Sarah kept her tone casual. "If you're agreeable, we could use a little extra firewood if you want to bring some over."

"Oh, I see. This is nothing more than a plot to extort seasoned logs from us, I get it now. We'll have to bring dinner too, that's next no doubt. Cheapskate."

"Hah. That's good coming from you," she said. "You still owe McMurphy for a month's worth of coffee and doughnut receipts."

"Hey, she pulls down the big bucks and she lives alone. She can afford it." Sarah heard the creak of Greg's Eames chair and pictured him in his study, long legs stretched out with feet resting atop his desk. "You'll need help getting the house ready."

Sarah smiled. "If you and Roz would like to come over a little early, that would be great."

"'That would be great'," he mocked her in a sarcastic falsetto. "Slavedriver."

"You offered."

"It was a courtesy." She heard Roz's voice in the background. "Ah, the wifey's requesting my services in the sack. Gotta go."

"Have fun rubbing yourselves together to keep warm," Sarah said sweetly, and laughed at his groan.

"Don't ruin it, _Mom_. Jeez." And he was gone. Sarah put the handset in the charger and glanced out the window. It had stopped snowing at least, but the drifts were already deep. She shivered and went back to scanning courses.

It was close to ten when the phone rang again. Sarah picked up quickly; Gene was still in with Jason, the two of them reading together, but she figured Jason was probably almost asleep, if not there already. "Hey Prof."

"Hello once more, dear girl." He sounded tired but warm and kind, as always. "We have half an hour or so before I turn back into a pumpkin-shaped chef, so let us have at it, my sweet."

"I don't think we need to now," Sarah said, and winced. She sounded like every other patient trying to weasel out of a session.

"How so?"

"I . . . I, ah, changed my mind. The courses . . . there are some good ones here. It—it won't be so bad, having to take a class." She waited for the smackdown, knowing it would be given in love, but given nonetheless.

"I'm very pleased to hear it, but there's an underlying issue here which must be examined, and that is your initial reaction to the requirement for further education." Gordon kept his tone neutral. "Let's discuss it, shall we?"

Sarah sighed softly. _This is a good thing_, she reminded herself as she always did before sessions. _This is what helped you move from nightmare to a real life. You know the work never ends, it just changes direction. Get on with it, Corbett__._ "Okay," she said aloud. "Here's what happened today . . ."

_'Elenore', the Turtles_

_'No School Tomorrow', lyrics by Jay Althouse_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. A review is like a day off from school-thoroughly enjoyable! :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_(Thought you might like an extra chapter. This won't happen again for a while as RL has a bunch of work piled up for me, but it was fun to write. It's a little rough because I didn't have enough time to revise it as thoroughly as I wanted to, but hope you enjoy it all the same. -B)_**

_February 3rd_

_2 p.m._

Gene finished putting the last of the leftover round roast into the stock pot. He gave it a stir, tasted the broth, added two pinches of salt and another grind of pepper. The stew would simmer gently for the next hour or so, get set aside to blend and season, then heated up to thicken and serve with fresh cornbread. He put the lid in place and heard the doorbell ring. Sarah was off taking a nap and Jason was in the barn practicing, so he answered it. Clare stood on the step with Rob next to her, holding both toddlers. He gave Gene a nod, blue eyes twinkling with humor.

"Afternoon," he said in an affable tone. "We hear you have rooms available."

"Afternoon back atcha," Gene said with a smile. "Indeed we do. Welcome to _chez_ Goldman." He stood aside and gestured with a flourish toward the living room. "Come in and get comfortable. I can take the little ones while you get those coats off. We'll bring in everything else a bit later." He accepted both babies and shifted them into his arms. Amy didn't so much as blink; she just lay her head on his shoulder, thumb in mouth, and closed her eyes. Josh was more fractious. He fussed and cried as Rob hung up coats in the hall closet.

"He's teething," Clare said, and looked a little worried. "I hope that won't bother you, he can be noisy at times."

"No problem," Gene said. "Do you have a teething ring for him?"

"Yes, it's the kind you keep in the freezer. There are two of them, and I brought some baby Tylenol too," Clare said. She sounded relieved, and Gene wondered if her ex-husband had given her a bad time about this kind of thing.

"Okay, that's fine," he said easily, and saw her features lose their worried lines. "Why don't you take Missy here and get her set up on the couch, and I'll handle this guy. He needs changing." He gave her a warm smile. "When everyone's set up, there's coffee or tea, or whatever you'd like in the kitchen. Don't be shy, our house is your house."

He handed over Amy and accepted the diaper bag in return, and took Josh to the bathroom. The little boy was beginning to grow restless in earnest, but he calmed as Gene removed his coat and opened his pants to reveal a sopping wet diaper. It was the work of a few minutes to get everything taken care of. While he worked Gene remembered doing the same thing for his younger brothers, back in the day. He'd always been the one who could switch out diapers and clean a dirty bottom in no time, without a resulting rash or difficulties; though he'd never said anything, he'd taken pride in that accomplishment.

"All right, short stack. That should keep you goin' for a while," he told Josh as he fastened the snaps on a clean pair of pants. He picked up the little boy and held him, gently rubbing his back. The toddler settled in against him and grizzled, fingers in his mouth. "Yeah, okay. Let's get you something for the pain. New teeth are pretty miserable, aren't they?" Gene removed the small hand and put his finger in Josh's mouth to gently rub the gums. It was easy to find the spot where the tooth was coming in—the area was swollen and hot. Josh leaned into his touch and chewed his finger as the counter-pressure relieved the pain. Gene kissed the tousled head and took him back into the living room, to find Amy crashed out on the couch under her blanket and Rob coming in with overnight bags.

"What room is Clare in?" he asked.

"Why don't you have her take the one opposite ours, and you can have the one next to that," Gene said. "They're both warmer than the big room at the end of the hall." Rob nodded and went up the stairs. Clare tucked the blanket in around Amy, then faced Gene.

"I can't begin to thank you for this," she said quietly. "You and Sarah have been so generous to me and the children, I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

"There's nothing to repay. Just take good care of your little ones, and yourself too," Gene said, and winced as Josh chomped down hard on his finger. With a chuckle he extracted it and took the teething ring Clare offered him.

"Sorry," she said, but she was smiling.

"He's gonna be a bruiser." Gene patted Josh's back. "I'll sit with him a while if that's all right. Kinda nice to have a little one to cuddle."

He chose the easy chair that faced the fire and couch both, and watched as Rob took Clare upstairs. He had his hand on her arm in a gesture that bespoke care and quiet tenderness. _That romance is movin' along in all the right ways__,_ Gene thought, and looked down at the little boy in his arms. Josh was drifting into sleep, his chin wet with slobber. Gene reached down into the diaper bag and rummaged for a tissue, found one and wiped away the spit. Josh renewed his assault on the teething ring and snuggled into Gene's arms, a small, warm weight.

"Well, look at you," Sarah said. She stood at the base of the steps. Her hair was a bit disheveled from her nap but she was smiling. "Happy now, Grandpa?" She came over and perched on the arm of the chair. "He's worn out."

"He's teething," Gene said softly.

"Aw, poor little guy." Sarah stroked Josh's soft blond hair. "We can try some chamomile tea later on to help him calm down, I'll make a cup and let it cool."

"Good idea. I made a batch of stew," Gene said. "It's on the stove now."

"I'll do some cornbread to go with it," Sarah said, as he knew she would. "We can have peach cobbler for dessert, might as well use up the ice cream now."

"Any old excuse," he said, and grinned at her. She arched a brow and rose to her feet.

"You won't be sayin' no to a helping. I'm gonna do some laundry before the opportunity's lost for a while."

She left him then, to visit with Clare and Rob who were sitting together on the couch next to Amy. Gene watched them until his own eyelids grew heavy. He made sure his arms were propped so Josh would be safe, and enjoyed the sensation of slipping into a nice doze.

"_Dad_. Wake up. You're snoring."

Gene came to with a start and realized Josh was missing. Jason stood in front of him. He looked both concerned and bemused.

"Where's the baby?" Gene demanded. Jason rolled his eyes.

"Mom has him. You have a wet spot on your shirt," he said, and moved off to the kitchen. Gene looked down and found a large patch where Josh had drooled on him; it was still fairly fresh so she couldn't have taken him too long ago. He got out of the chair and stretched cramped limbs a bit, then went in search of his wife. He found her in the kitchen at the stove with Josh on her hip, happily chewing on his ring while she stirred the stew. The sight sent a little pang of sadness mixed with pleasure through him, the same thing that always happened when he saw her with a child, but all he said was

"Thief."

"Hey, you were out cold and Rob has Amy. I wanted some quality time with a chitlin', so I borrowed Josh." She put the lid on the pot. "You can have him back now, I'll get the cornbread ready. Roz called, she and Greg will be over in a half hour or so. She's bringing some _ribollita_ for supper tomorrow."

To Gene's mild surprise they were more or less on time, probably since Roz had called to let them know; he happened to be at the back door, bringing in some jars of peaches from the pantry, when he saw the Houses coming down the lane. Sarah came to him and glanced out the window. Greg and Roz walked together, overnight bags and grocery sacks in their hands; Hellboy perched on Roz's shoulder, half-curled into the hood of her coat. The couple stayed close to each other, talking and taking their time; at one point Greg laughed, his rare smile flashing in the waning light. Gene glanced at Sarah and caught an expression of powerful delight there, and behind it the deep affection he knew she held for both Greg and Roz. She said nothing, just looked up at him and smiled, put her hand on his shoulder for a moment, then took the peaches and went into the kitchen.

Within fifteen minutes of their arrival Roz sat on the couch with Amy in her lap, chatting with Rob as the little girl burbled and played with a toy. House took himself off to the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the toddlers; it was too much to expect he'd willingly dandle a baby on his knee, but Gene suspected sometime during the next day or so, Greg would end up watching one of the little ones, and would do a good job of it. From what he'd observed over the years, House respected children as individuals with their own thoughts and feelings, and yet was apprehensive of their ability to see past the masks adults put on. Still, both Josh and Amy were too young to articulate their viewpoints, at least right now. It would be interesting to see what happened.

The first flakes of snow started to fall shortly after sundown, and within another hour the winds picked up. No one seemed worried, though; they ate beef stew and cornbread and demolished Sarah's peach cobbler along with mugs of fresh coffee, then congregated in the living room by the fire. The house was as ready as they could make it; fortunately the storm was supposed to move through quickly, so any damage wouldn't be long-lived.

"The clinic's set up for everything too. McMurphy and Chandler said they're staying over, and Anne and Mandy are there too. Diane said she'd help out if we need emergency service or transportation," Rob said.

"Here's hoping nothing happens," Roz said, and clinked her coffee mug to Rob's.

"Oh great. Now you've practically guaranteed a disaster," Greg said. He sat next to Roz, his long thigh pressed against hers.

"Well, I for one say we don't sit here talkin' about it," Sarah said. "Let's get the guitars and play, it's been a while since we had a back porch session." She smiled at Clare. "Why don't we get the babies taken care of first?"

Soon enough the toddlers were settled on the couch with their mother, while the players had pulled various chairs into a circle by the fire. Both Gene and Greg had moved on to beer, Rob made do with Coke, and Sarah with her usual ginger beer. Roz and Jason sat with them, Roz next to Greg with Hellboy draped over her lap, Jason between Gene and Sarah, sitting with his back against Gene's left leg.

"Didn't know you played," Greg said when Rob chose the Martin six-string.

"It's been a while. I bought an old Yamaha at a yard sale this past summer and started working on chords, but I'm still remembering where to put my fingers. Just play what you like, I'll sit in the background and try to keep up," Rob said. Sarah chuckled.

"You're better than you say, I've heard you practicing in the clinic when you're between cases." She sipped her ginger beer and set it aside. "Just for that, you choose the first song."

Rob finished tuning and sat back. After a moment he strummed a chord. "I know 'Down in the Valley'."

Greg groaned. Sarah gave him a light smack. "Stop it, it's a good song to warm up with."

So they played it, keeping the volume down in deference to sleeping toddlers, then moved on to other music—ballads and quiet blues, which seemed to suit the mood of everyone there anyway. Gene watched the others as they played, talked and joked with each other, and with him too. Now that his schedule had been reworked to include longer consults and more time away from home, sessions like these were harder to come by, so he soaked up every bit of enjoyment possible to carry with him during long and boring conferences, or interminable waits in airports or train stations. The memory of shared good times offered peace of mind when his thoughts were troubled or he was lonely and homesick.

It was late when Sarah said softly, "Let's call it a night. We'll all have a long day tomorrow digging out and dealing with whatever comes, so a good rest will be essential."

They trooped off to their rooms, while Sarah banked the main fire and Gene checked the windows and doors. It was coming down fast outside now, with drifts piling up. He checked on Jason, to find him already in bed, burrowed under his blankets and comforter, as always. Gene came in and kissed the top of Jason's head, the only part of him visible.

"Good night, son," he said softly. "We'll read tomorrow."

"'kay," Jason said in a sleepy tone. "'night, Dad."

Gene left him and went back into the living room. "I'll clear the pathways and come up when I'm done," he said. Sarah straightened and put the poker in the stand, then replaced the screen. She came to him and gave him a kiss.

"I'll do the back porch, you do the front," she said quietly.

"Sare, it's okay," he said. She kissed him again.

"Don't argue. I'd rather just get it done and go upstairs to snuggle with you. Okay?"

Put that way, he couldn't refute her argument because he agreed. They bundled into coats, hats and gloves, and went their separate ways.

The snow was falling thick and heavy. Gene didn't bother to do a neat job; he bulldozed a wide path to the driveway and sprinkled ashes on it and the step, cleared out around the minivan, and made sure access to the road was free of the worst of the drifts. If they needed to get out, they could attempt it at least.

By the time he came back in he was covered with snow and more than ready to climb into a warm bed, but he went to the back and found Sarah coming in. All he could see was the end of her nose, blue with cold. He shut the door behind her and gave her a quick survey. "I'll take care of the coats and other stuff. You go upstairs and get warm."

It didn't take long to get everything brushed off and hung up to dry near the vent, and to make a quick stop in the kitchen for two cups of tea. He carried them with care up the stairs to their room, to find Sarah wrapped in her bathrobe, adding another log to the woodstove. She gave him a grateful look when he offered her one of the cups. They sat down in front of the stove together and sipped tea in companionable silence.

"Full house tomorrow," Sarah said finally.

"It's been a while." Gene put his hand on her back, rubbed gently, just as he'd done with Josh earlier. Sarah leaned into his touch.

"Mmmm . . . We missed the Superbowl today, you know. I thought for sure Greg would point that out and bitch like crazy."

Gene paused. "We did?" He smiled a little. "Oh well. There's always next year." He sipped his tea and kept an innocent expression on his face.

"Uh huh. I can feel you adding up brownie points all the way over here," Sarah said dryly. "And just how much will I owe for this one?"

"Not much. Maybe a little slap and tickle," he said. "I'm a cheap date, you know."

"Always were." She finished off her tea and got to her feet. "Fine. I like to pay my debts off right away, so let's get busy, slacker."

Gene accepted her cup, stacked it under his, and stood. He put the cups on the nightstand, then folded back the bedcovers to reveal the electric blanket he'd put in place earlier that evening. He put a hand on it. "Nice and toasty warm," he said with a grin. Sarah's face brightened. She came forward and slipped her arms around him.

"Hot tea, hot sheets, hot man," she whispered. "'Not much', my ass. I'll be paying this off for years."

"Guess we'd better get busy then," he said, and kissed her.

They made love in near silence, a slow, easy joining that gave them both comfort and pleasure. Afterward they lay together, cuddled under the comforter as the wind blew and sighed, and snow fell in unending swirls past the window.

"Do you miss going to the Keys?" he asked after a while. He played with her curls, twining a strand around his finger to watch it gleam in the faint, flickering light of the woodstove fire.

"Yeah, but I'm happy just to have you here," she said. "We can always go next year."

"I can feel you adding up brownie points," he teased. Sarah chuckled.

"No, this is different," she said after a time. "I just wish I could get my practice up and running sooner, to help out."

"You'll get there." He kissed her temple. "Decided on a class yet?"

"I've narrowed it down to three. Guess I'll have to do 'eenie meenie chili beanie' to decide," she said, smiling. "Once that's done I can set up shop."

"Good to know," Gene said.

"Yeah, that's just great. Fantastic. Hunky-dory." Greg's muffled voice came through the wall. "Will you two _shut up_ now?"

Sarah giggled. Gene rolled his eyes. "Eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves," he said.

"Like I have a choice."

"Oh, I don't know . . ." Sarah said in a considering tone. "I'm ready for another session of hot lovin'. How about you, hubby?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Gene said.

"_Jesus," _Greg whined. "We're pulling the comforter over our heads now! You'd better hope we don't suffocate!"

"Go to sleep!" Sarah said sternly. Silence answered her. She glanced at Gene, her green eyes sparkling with laughter. He leaned in.

"I'm only as good once as I ever was, but we could try," he whispered, and discovered, to his and Sarah's mutual delight, that he was much better than that.

_**Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like diapers-a never-ending supply is always welcome :)**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_(Many thanks to everyone who has favorited or followed my story and/or me, I'm deeply honored as always. _**

**_I'm taking some time to respond to a review, so please bear with me. Skip to the chapter if you're not interested-no harm, no foul. :)_**

**_Last week a guest reviewer posted some comments saying perhaps this series should no longer be classified as House fic, because it doesn't follow the canon storyline and the canon characters aren't featured as prominently as they are in the original tv series. I have to confess to some impatience with this line of thought and thus feel compelled to respond. The following reply is offered with true respect to the anonymous reviewer._**

**_Most fic is a riff on the canon storyline. It's usually written by an obsessed fan imagining the bits we didn't get to see in an episode, or sending our favorite characters off on adventures, or creating new opportunities for them that the canon writers wouldn't or shouldn't be able to use for various reasons. In my opinion, fic by its nature is meant to be just a little bit different from a canon episode, at the least. That difference can range from giving us a character's internal thoughts, all the way to placing a character in an alternate universe or history. (Oflymonddreams's _Collar Redux_ series, DIYSheep's _Contract '_verse, and MissBates's story _The Kelpie_ are all excellent examples of AU storylines and superlative writing.)_**

**_I've done my level best to make it clear that from the very beginning-literally the first chapter of the first story-this 'verse is AU to the canon storyline and will generally not follow what happened in resulting seasons, nor will it be set in Princeton and PPTH. This is very much a 'what if?' fic: what if House was offered a chance to heal, to find a different life? Would he take it? What would happen? It isn't meant to supplant canon or replace it, or anything of the sort. It's a riff, nothing more. _**

**_ As the Treatment 'verse has moved farther away from canon, the OCs have assumed more prominence because House's life has moved from Princeton and PPTH to the southern Adirondacks of upstate New York. Therefore, it naturally follows that the complement of characters would shift from canon to OC as well. _****_I write what the muse tells me to write, and because I am an OC writer, that's what gets written. If anyone finds my storyline lacking or not to their taste, they are free to browse through FF and find something more to their liking. There are many fine writers out there to choose from: check my favorites list if you like, I have choices that range all over the spectrum. :)_**

**_I thank the guest reviewer for being honest and giving me his/her opinion, and thank them also for the kind words about my writing, I appreciate the compliment and am humbly grateful. Having said that, this fic is what it is: OC/AU House fic that hasn't followed canon since the end of S5 and the season finale, 'Both Sides Now' (which was the inspiration for this series in the first place). _**

**_So I'll make it clear one more time: this fic is proudly House, though completely AU to canon at this point; it is also crammed to bursting with OC characters and romance, and will stay that way. (In this particular story we'll get to see House revisit his old stomping grounds, something I'd planned before this review came up-but it won't be a regular occurrence.) To quote Jane Eyre, 'thereby I plant my foot'. Don't like what I write? You could write your own fic and post it, I encourage you to do so. But please, don't tell me you have quibbles with the content of my work and keep reading it anyway, in the hopes I'll decide to write canon episodes that are copies of the episodes we saw on tv, etc. It won't happen. Whatever my other sins may be, and believe me I've got plenty to account for, I'm not that kind of writer, not would ever want to be._**

**_Okay, I'm done pontificating now. My apologies for sounding defensive, but people apparently trying to get me to rewrite my stories the way they want them written really, REALLY gets under my skin. -B)_**

_February 8th_

_11 a.m._

"So, what do you have for me, people?"

Greg sits back and watches his team members get out the files they've been looking over since yesterday, and anticipates the fencing match that awaits. He'd never admit this to anyone—he's barely able to say it to himself—but he actually enjoys these sessions most of the time: the sharpening of wits, the snark, the clash of egos and ulterior motives, the cases themselves, endlessly fascinating, except when they aren't . . . He moves his attention back to the meeting. Predictably, Chandler's first out of the gate.

"Three year old presenting with symptoms of hypercyanosis," she's saying, "fairly strong heart murmur and resulting lethargy leading to the inability to feed properly, resulting in slowed growth. And there's clubbing of the fingertips—"

"Well that's easy enough," Chase cuts in. "Tetralogy of Fallot, we're done."

"There's more going on," Chandler says. She pauses. "Purpura."

Singh pages through his copy of the file. "Interesting. That would indicate blood clots, and probably not just under the skin."

Blood clots aren't a symptom of Fallot," Chandler states the obvious. "So what else is going on?"

"That is the question of the day, isn't it?" Greg twines a rubber band between his fingers, turning it into a moebius strip. "What's even more interesting is that your patient is a toddler. In fact most of your preferred cases are children."

Chase and Singh look at Chandler. She doesn't freak out or get upset. "No, that's not true," she says, calm as you please. "I am more comfortable with children, though, if that's what you're implying."

"Nice of you to admit it, instead of making us winkle it out of you," Greg says, and observes her as he speaks, but she gives him nothing but a bland stare in return. "Get started on the tests."

Chase sits back and looks disgusted. "Not even gonna listen to what anyone else has to present," he says, sulky as a three-year-old denied a treat.

"The father wants to talk with you," Chandler says, ignoring Chase.

"Good to know. Too bad I don't want to talk with him. That's your job." He winds the rubber band, watching her.

"He needs some reassurance."

"And you think I'm the one to give it to him?" Greg pauses and opens his eyes wide for dramatic effect. "How long have you been working here?"

"He's gonna listen to you over me because you're the one who runs this place, and you're a man," Chandler says.

"Wow, you took a double dose of plain speaking meds this morning," he says. "Singh or Chase both own a pair of balls, allegedly. They can deal with things. _Tests_," he reminds them, and watches as they file out. All but Chandler, who pauses at the door.

"Just because I don't have testicles doesn't mean I can't handle the situation. I'm saying the father would prefer to talk to a male doctor," she says quietly, and walks away, her back very straight. Greg watches her disappear into the patient's room. After a minute or two he puts on Johnny Young and listens to Otis Spann's wild mouth harp making glad sounds over the rough, galloping thump of really good Chicago blues. He can almost feel the cold midwestern morning in the music, smell the gritty exhaust-laden air and cigarette smoke in the lyrics.

"Mail's in," McMurphy says, and dumps the stack on his blotter with a graceless gesture that makes him wince.

"Christ on a crutch," he mutters, "surrounded by mental pygmies who can't appreciate the beauty of a well-played note."

"You'd better not include me in that list," McMurphy says with a smirk.

"Of course you're on the list, you're at the top of it as a matter of fact." He picks up his empty coffee mug and hands it to her. "Fill 'er up."

McMurphy takes it. "I may be a mental pygmy by your standards, but you're unbelievably trusting," she says wryly, and leaves the office.

"And doughnuts!" he yells after her, then grabs a handful of mail and sorts through it. Requests for speaking at conferences and conventions get circular-filed as a matter of course; ditto hit-ups for donations, pleas to co-write papers, and other detritus of professional life. He doesn't have to worry about journal renewals and membership fees at least; his exec sec will take care of those pesky tasks.

At some point McMurphy returns with his mug filled to the tippy-top with steaming hot joe, and two doughnuts perched on a plate side by side. She puts it next to his mail without comment. He gives her a suspicious glare. She returns it with a sweet smile, her brown eyes glinting, and leaves the office. He grabs a doughnut, inspects it, then carefully lifts the mug to his nose and gives it a sniff. Everything looks okay—no pubic hairs or urine at least. He sets the mug down, gives a mental shrug and takes a huge bite of doughnut, then goes back to his mail. It isn't until he finds the envelope with a Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital return address that he pauses. There's a single sheet inside, with Cuddy's personal letterhead at the top. The body of the communication is admirably succinct and handwritten to boot, presumably by the sender.

_I'm calling in your debt. Let's talk. __–__C_

Intrigued, he sets the paper on the blotter and folds his arms behind his head, to stare at the innocuous little sentence. What to do, what to do? He contemplates the possible options.

The idea of going to New Jersey to revisit old territory holds a certain appeal. He hasn't been back in some time, and it would be interesting to see what's changed, who's doing who, and how the pecking order's sorted out as of late. On the other hand, he shook the dust of his erstwhile digs from his sneaks some time ago and never looked back; he's had a lot of practice in that area, so it wasn't really all that hard. While he was at PPTH longer than any other job, it was still just that—a job, a means to an end, a chance to exercise his one great gift. The setting never really mattered that much . . . Memories come up now to expose the lie in that thought, memories both sharp and clear because with very few exceptions, all his recollections are that way; it's the blessing and curse of an eidetic memory. The blood clot and lack of diagnosis, Cuddy arguing over procedure, his waking to find a substantial chunk of his leg and his life as he'd known it, gone; her offer of a position, a poor compensation for the loss of his physical wholeness, but still better than nothing—or at least so he'd thought at the time.

Because of his work with Sarah he doesn't shy away now from remembering that period, a black hole of disbelief and an agony of mind and spirit so profound it felt as if he was being torn to pieces, atom by atom. It's a distant pain now, one that fed his growing madness and despair until he'd ended up in Sarah's office, in need of healing on all levels—and he'd gotten it too. He rubs his thigh, feels the smooth skin and muscle there under the fabric of his jeans—a miracle he'd always hoped for but never quite dared to believe in, he can admit that at last, at least to himself.

Johnny Young's singing 'Now she's gone, and I don't worry/'cause I'm doin' all right for myself'. He looks at the letter again; then before he can change his mind, he picks up the phone and dials the number for Cuddy's office, her personal line—the one that isn't listed on the letterhead. It rings a few times and he's decided he'll end up in voicemail when it's answered.

"_House?_" Cuddy sounds cautious, disbelieving. "You're actually calling me the day you probably got my letter? Wonders will never cease."

"Yeah, because you stash all your ex-employees in the Adirondacks, and there are so, so many of us here that you can't believe it's me. Who knew you were such an enthusiastic enforcer for the board of directors? Of course I did, but I digress." Ah, the trading of sharp-edged badinage. How it all comes back so easily—though of course he's been keeping practice here; McMurphy alone is an excellent sparring partner in the workplace. Roz is her equal at home.

"Well—how are you, and your wife? How's—how's everything in the hinterlands? Are you still digging out from that last storm? We got a few inches here, that's all." She sounds more relaxed now, but still wary—excellent. She's putty in his hands, even after all this time.

"A few inches is all you can expect in New Jersey," he leers, and hears her soft, reluctant chuckle—good, still quick on the uptake.

"As opposed to your big ten-inch," she says wryly. "Maybe we should get to the point of this call."

"I thought we already did. Is there one besides sexual innuendo?" he asks, all innocence. "Though my wife would agree with you, there's far more truth to what you just said—"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't want to hear it," Cuddy interposes. "Fine, since we can't have a civilized conversation, god knows why I ever thought we could—I'm calling in your debt."

"Taub's services do not qualify as a debt." He rubs his thigh, savors the lack of anything resembling a scar.

"Wrong." She hesitates—a sure sign something big's going on, something she's reluctant to divulge even in her own office. "Would you be more intrigued if I told you Foreman asked for you specifically?"

Greg sits up a bit. "Django unchained wants me to consult. Interesting. Undoubtedly that's double-ultra-secret code for 'It's cold here in the forest and there are wolves after me, but I don't want to admit it'."

"Not consult exactly," Cuddy says.

"Then _what_ exactly?"

"I'll leave the details to the department head. Call him yourself, he'll confirm it." Uh oh, the challenge and past that, the worry behind her casual remark means this probably really is a major fuckup of some sort, and she and the Dark Pretentious One want him to fix it. A few years back he'd have jumped at the chance to go bowling with the heads of everyone on the team, and torment Cuddy into a perpetual state of near-frenzy, just for the fun of doing it. Now, not so much. He won't go as far as to say he's happy—the H word is still not part of his personal lexicon and never will be if he has anything to say about it—but he's found more peace of mind here in the boonies than anywhere he's ever lived, and for some strange reason he doesn't want to lose it through a stupid move . . . for example, revisiting the site of so much pain, misery and mayhem, and taking on a project that might end up in those qualities being assigned to him once more.

"Incentive," he says aloud.

"Beyond the fact that you owe me?"

"Meh, nothing in that for _moi_ beyond sanding off a notch on your office chair and living to tell the tale." He tips his own seat back and sips his cooling coffee. "You're afraid the AMA will freak out if they find out how badly Foreman's snarled up some case of terminal halitosis."

"Stop fishing, I'm not telling you anything over the phone." The exasperation in Cuddy's voice is familiar, reassuring. Greg closes his eyes and smiles a little.

"I'll get back to you," he says, and ends the call on his ex-boss's indignant squawk.

"_House-_"

He sits there for a while, mulling over the situation. Then he stands, grabs his mug and goes to the kitchen. The coffeemaker sits on the counter as always, half a carafe of brew keeping warm. He dumps his cold coffee and pours fresh, gives it a cautious taste. It's exactly the same as the stuff in his mug, minus the sugar. He stares at the carafe in suspicion, then attempts to dismiss his paranoia. McMurphy enjoys reciprocal head games, and she owes him a few hits. Still, he checks the sugar bowl just to make sure. Everything looks okay, no rat poison or methylene blue . . . He opens the cupboard above the coffeemaker and peers at the contents. There are little bottles of flavorings and extracts, along with some baking soda and salt—nothing out of the ordinary, Sarah sometimes bakes here at the clinic so she keeps supplies on hand. He shrugs, closes the door, stirs his joe and goes back to his office, to find another surprise in this morning full of them. Roz is there. She's pacing back and forth in front of his desk; she still has her coat and hat on. He moves forward with caution and comes in. "Hey," he says, a bit wary. "You're wearing a hole in the floor."

Roz stops and faces him. She looks scared, mad and bewildered all at once. His heart contracts in a spasm of terror. Not again—she _can't_ be pregnant, they've taken every damn precaution besides abstinence—

"No," she says, "No, don't panic, it's okay. I'm—I'm not pregnant." She comes forward now, but doesn't touch him. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I'm—I—I quit."

"Quit," he says, and then it registers. "You told Kyle to fuck off finally?" The relief is profound and makes him use a harsh tone he doesn't really intend. "About time you made up your mind. He's been screwing you over for years."

Roz swallows. "Yeah, well . . ." She relaxes a fraction, but still doesn't come to him. "It—it was stupid . . . do you—can I sit down and tell you? Are you busy?" She looks at him, a quick glance, shakes her head. "Forget it. You've got something on your mind. We can talk tonight when you get home. I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing." He puts his mug on the blotter and goes to her, takes her by the arms and moves her to a chair, sits her down gently, then perches on the desk. "Tell."

"You're—you're sure? Yeah, okay. Stupid question," she says when he glares at her. She wipes her eyes and he realizes she's been crying—she isn't now, but earlier . . . He has a mental image of her in the truck with tears on her lashes and feels a surge of protective tenderness, a need to bring her into his arms. He sets the feeling aside; not right now, she won't thank him for indulging in it while she's trying to sort out her feelings.

"What happened?" he asks quietly. Roz sniffs and wipes her nose with her glove, a childish gesture that makes him smile just a little despite himself.

"Well . . ." She hesitates, then sighs. "Yeah, okay. Let me just tell it. I spent most of the morning on Quinn's barn and it pissed Kyle off. He told me it was time to tell Pat Quinn to burn the damn thing down and start over, we'd wasted enough time on a losing proposition. And just the way he—he said it . . . like I'd been goofing off by helping Pat . . . It just—just made me mad, it really did, because it was mean." Her green eyes flash with anger. "That _buffone_ had no problem taking Pat's money, but when it came to getting the job finished he didn't care. Well, I _do_ care. It's not just about the money, it's—it's unprofessional to leave a contract unfinished. So we—we fought about it."

"And you quit," Greg says when she falls silent. Roz nods.

"Yeah. It just—slipped out. 'I'm done'. We were both a little surprised, I think. Then he told me to go to hell, he'd had enough of me."

"He stiffed you on your pay," Greg guesses.

"No way!" Roz looks indignant again. "I made him pay out what he owes me in cash, so he can't bounce a check."

Greg knows genuine amusement at and pride in his wife's street smarts, but all he says is "So what now?"

"I don't know. I don't know." She actually wrings her hands. "God, I just quit my job. I must be completely insane."

"Actually . . ." Well, what the hell, why not? "You timed it nicely, since I'm thinking of going back to Princeton for a visit. You could come with me while you're deciding what to do."

That stops her cold. She stares at him. "Princeton? You-you mean the hospital? They want you back?" Her breath hitches a little.

"For a _visit_. No one wants me to return permanently, and that includes yours truly." He gets up. "Let's talk about it over lunch at your grandfather's place."

Roz looks a little surprised. "What time is it?"

Greg glances at his watch. "Time to eat."

It doesn't take long to get to Poppi's. Sarah meets them at the door, her curls tied back in a ponytail and an apron tied over her black sweater and jeans, a pencil tucked behind her ear. "You timed it just right," she says with a smile. "Lou just took the first batch of today's special out of the oven. What can I get you to drink?"

"I quit my job," Roz says quietly. Sarah's eyes widen a little, but she doesn't break stride. Instead she gives the younger woman a gentle hug.

"You might not think so now," she says after a moment or two, "but this is the best thing that could happen. Come on, let's grab a back booth and talk, I've got a second or two to spare."

For the next few minutes Greg watches Sarah ease his wife's fears and offer both reassurance and a chance to vent. All of it is done in a manner that holds respect and truth as well as compassion. By the time she's done Roz is calmer, much less fearful and even able to smile when Sarah teases her gently about sleeping in and housework.

"You won't have any excuses now," she says, smiling.

"She will for a couple of weeks at least. Going back to Jersey for a little visit. I've asked her to come with. Princeton needs me," he says, knowing it will sharpen Sarah's interest. She gives him a speculative look tinged with amusement.

"The whole town asked you to come back?"

"No, just the petty warlord who rules the fiefdom of PPTH," he says. "Apparently the head of the Diagnostics department needs a cleanup in aisle seven."

Sarah nods. "Maybe we could talk about it later this evening," she says mildly. It's clear she's leaving it up to him. After a moment he nods once. She offers him a smile and gets to her feet.

"Iced teas all around?" she asks, and heads off to the kitchen, to return with the drinks and Lou as well. He puts a pizza down in front of them. It's a beauty—Parma ham and onions and sliced grilled baby portobella mushrooms, fresh basil, rosemary and Greek oregano, layered with water-buffalo mozzarella and pecorino cheese, homemade sauce and a drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil, all riding on a chewy crust. Greg helps himself while Lou hugs his granddaughter and listens to her story.

"You're better off without that _stolto_, haven't I said it a thousand times? The only reason he made any money is because you work so hard and do such a good job." Lou kisses Roz's cheek. "This is a good thing, you'll see."

Later on, when they're at home and crashed out on the couch together watching tv, Roz says "I'll go with you to Princeton. If . . . if you really want me to."

Greg cradles her slender hip in his hand and kisses her temple, just a soft little buss, a brush of his lips over her skin. "Yeah," he says. "I do."

_'I'm Doing All Right', Johnny Young_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like a slice of good pizza-one just isn't enough :)_**


	4. Chapter 4

**_(Many thanks to everyone who has followed and favorited my stories and me, as always I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. It still makes me bounce up and down in my chair when someone likes my writing. Yes, I am that insecure and needy. :)_**

**_If you get a chance, please listen to the music used for writing this chapter. I cribbed a couple of tracks from the _Silver Linings Playbook_ soundtrack. I highly recommend the movie-it's a good exploration of mental illness without being heavy-handed or somber. -B)_**

_February 14th_

_8:30 a.m._

_This is the best part of my day—right before the shit hits the fan. _

Eric paused in taking his first sip of morning coffee. Where the hell had that thought come from? He pushed it away and returned his attention to Cuddy. "You know, you could call him yourself," she was saying in that dry tone which was her way of letting him know he'd be doing it, no questions asked. "Leaving the dirty work to me is only going to encourage House to up the gamesmanship."

Eric gave Cuddy a considering look. "You really think that won't happen anyway?" He tasted his coffee and wondered if Cuddy even knew there were other varieties of bean. Eight O'Clock Columbian, pre-ground and off the supermarket shelf, was all she ever offered.

"Of course it will. I'm just saying that your direct participation would probably reduce the amount of nonsense we end up going through." Cuddy held her mug in both hands and regarded him with a steady gaze. She looked tired. No doubt she'd been up with Rachel again. She needed to bring her daughter in for a sleep-disturbance study; the kid had to be old enough to make it through the night now. "He'll hold at least a modicum of respect for you if you call him yourself."

"I don't care if he respects me. I just—need his help." The very words tasted sour on his tongue.

"Eric." Cuddy leaned forward a little. "Give it up. You might be department head, but you'll still have to play by his rules. Accept it and be glad he's even considering coming down here."

"He'll only take it on to amuse himself."

Cuddy raised her brows. "And your point would be?"

Eric fought not to roll his eyes. "Great. First item on the agenda, then. I might as well get it out of the way."

"Good luck with that." Cuddy gave a discreet sniff. "Let me know how things go."

He left her office a short time later. As he passed the doors to the clinic he gave a fleeting glance to his reflection. Nothing to fault there: Joseph Abboud three-piece wool suit, handmade linen shirt and silk tie, Magnanni monk-strap loafers, Goldpfeil briefcase . . . add gold cufflinks and a discreet spritz of Acqua di Parma, and he was the epitome of a successful department head. There was a certain satisfaction in looking good, he was honest enough to admit it; he'd worked hard to reach this point in his career, and he wanted the people around him to know it. And arriving at work to find his name on the door—_his_, not House's; his desk and mementos placed with care for maximum impact and impression, cool and clean and elegant, that meant something too.

He entered his outer office now, to be accosted by his assistant. "Good morning, Doctor Foreman." She sounded nervous. Eric frowned at her, and then at his doorway. His view was obscured by a large bunch of heart-shaped helium balloons in various shades of red and pink, all trailing bright ribbons and glitter tails.

"What's this?" he asked with outward calm. Last night's date hadn't gone _that_ well—in fact he'd decided not to call her again, though the sex had been pretty decent.

"I—I don't know, it was here when I came in earlier." Denise sounded apologetic. With an impatient gesture Eric pushed the balloons aside and strode forward to find what appeared to be a giant chocolate-chocolate chip cookie, also in the shape of a heart, placed atop the blotter on his desk. It was wrapped in pink cellophane, which allowed him to read the words 'EAT ME' written across the front in an ornate script made of Dayglo-pink icing. He stared down at it, a familiar sense of frustration and faint, reluctant amusement rising up inside.

"House," he muttered. He could almost feel the weight of that knowing, mocking stare fixed on him in anticipation of his reaction.

"Beg pardon?" Denise gave him an inquiring look.

"Have the balloons taken to the pediatrics oncology ward," he said, resigned to the ordeal ahead. "Cut this thing up and put it out with the coffee, no sense in wasting it." _And I'll probably eat the damn words, just as he intended_.

"I'll brew a pot now," his assistant said quickly. He handed her the cookie. Her eyes widened as she took in the message; Eric caught her brief grin before she scurried into the conference room. Word of this would be making its way through the hospital grapevine in a matter of moments, of that he had no doubt. With a grimace he sat down and adjusted his tie, opened an app on his personal phone and began the usual rundown of the day's schedule and appointments. When he'd reviewed everything possible, he set the phone aside and reached for the landline receiver to make the call he'd hoped never to resort to.

_10:15 a.m._

Greg pulls Barbarella into the parking lot, pleased to find the guy they've contracted to do the plowing actually got it done before noon this time. He pulls into the spot next to the door, babies the engine before he shuts her down per his mechanic's instructions (for 'instructions' substitute the words 'dire warnings'—Jay still loves his baby), grabs his backpack and heads inside. It's a bitterly cold morning, miserable enough to have every bone in his body aching, but he's betting the entertainment value of future events will make coming in well worth his time.

The interior of the clinic is warm and welcoming, as always; there's a nice fire blazing in the waiting area fireplace, accompanied by the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and what can only be Sarah's cinnamon rolls, brought in specially for Valentine's. No doubt there'll be a box of chocolates too.

"Morning," he says cheerfully as he passes McMurphy's desk. She gives him a look.

"You're suspiciously chipper," she says. "Wouldn't have anything to do with the calls coming in from Princeton, would it?"

Greg gives her an innocent look and heads into his office. He dumps his backpack and coat on a convenient chair, peels off his gloves and tosses them on the pile, grabs his mug and goes to the kitchen. Singh's in the conference room looking over test results and munching an illicit roll—excellent blackmail material to use later, when Chitra makes her weekly checkup on her husband's eating habits.

Five minutes later he's enjoying a buttered roll and hot sweet coffee and gloating over the message scribbled on the post-it note stuck to his blotter.

_Call me back. Foreman_

There are two little pencil marks after the short sentence: || Greg knows McMurphy's shorthand well enough by now to understand that means Foreman's called twice. The terseness and lack of title tells him his former fellow got the Valentine's goodies. He wonders how long it took the news to make the rounds. With Wilson gone, probably about half an hour longer than usual.

"McMurphy!" he yells. His exec sec sticks her head around the doorframe a few moments later.

"That is indeed my name, thanks for noticing."

"You didn't write down when the calls came in. Slacker."

"Bite me. Or should I say, eat me." She flashes him a grin and withdraws. Greg allows himself a chuckle, and picks up the phone.

Foreman picks up on the first ring. "House," he says. Greg takes a moment to savor the _frisson_ of anxiety and antagonism in the other man's voice.

"_Fore_maaaannnn," he says, drawing out the name. "This is something of a surprise. You never call, you never write. I'm all _verklempt_."

"Can we skip the bullshit and get right to the point? I have a meeting in ten minutes."

"Ah. Don't want to make the big man late." Greg glances at his watch; not quite ten thirty. He hasn't even seen all his team members yet—Chase is at the clinic putting in hours, and Chandler's running a test. He settles back in his chair and says nothing.

"You could try asking me why I called," Foreman says after a few moments of silence.

"Don't really care." Greg sips his coffee.

"So why'd you even bother to return the call?"

"Why not? I'm bored."

"Don't you have a case you're working on?" Frustration battles with curiosity in Foreman's tone.

"Yeah. That's why I have minions."

"How well I remember," Foreman says dryly. "Okay, fine. You're gonna make me say it, so I might as well get it over with. I . . . I need your help."

Greg savors the words like fine wine. "Tell."

"Tough to do over the phone . . ."

"Give it the old college try. In your case, community college." He settles back and props his feet on the desk. This is _fun_.

"At least I didn't get thrown out of med school twice." Foreman broods for a moment or two. "This patient has us completely out of answers. We've run practically every test possible, everything that might have even a remote chance of providing a clue, and nothing's come up."

Greg feels his interest sharpen. "Basics," he says. "Start at the beginning."

"The patient's autistic, so getting an accurate list of symptoms hasn't been possible—"

"So gimme what you _do_ have! _Jesus_, Foreman!" Impatience floods him, and just for a moment he's back in that place he hoped he'd left behind forever—alone, miserable, in pain, with nothing but the puzzle to distract him. He puts a hand on his right thigh, grips it—and just that fast, he's back in the present. He draws a silent, shaking breath.

"The verifiable symptoms are vomiting, stiff neck and low-grade fever," Foreman's saying. He's trying to be calm and cool, but he's offended, that's quite plain. "We suspect vertigo and headache as well, but can't verify. The parents get more of what she's trying to communicate than we do of course-"

"Encephalitis," Greg says. He massages his thigh, taking comfort in the solid mass of muscle and smooth skin under the thick fabric of his jeans.

"That would account for everything except the new symptoms that showed up after the patient was admitted. Moderate sensitivity to light with apparent moderate to severe pain accompanying arrived first," Foreman says. "Hemiplegia and joint pain followed. We suspect aphasia but again, it's tough to tell given the patient's autism."

"When was the patient admitted?"

"Two weeks ago. Her parents are threatening to take her to New York—well, to you actually." There's a slight, surprising hint of humor in the words. Greg snorts softly.

"She'd be better off." He rubs his thigh. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Inflammation of the iris, some uveitis with it. There might be some hearing loss too, we're trying to test for it again."

Greg tilts his head. "Interesting."

"Interesting enough to get you here?" The desperation is plain now, though Foreman still sounds fairly calm.

"One week," Greg says. "Less if possible. You pick up the tab for accommodations and travel, not to mention my fee."

"_Fee_? Since when the hell do you have a fee?"

"Since just now," Greg says, enjoying the sound of panic in a born administrator's voice. "Thirty grand."

Dead silence. Then, "Ten. That's all I've got left—"

"Thirty, or you get to watch your patient come to my clinic and find salvation at the hands of the master."

An impatient sigh. "Fifteen."

"Thirty."

"Come on, House. You don't have to prove you're a hardass, I already know it."

"The lesson needs reinforcing." He won't mention the money will be much needed now that his wife is out of a job for the time being; no point in handing an opponent ammunition. "Okay. As a concession to you . . . twenty-seven."

"You're killing me with your magnanimity," Foreman says dryly. "Twenty."

"Twenty-five. And accommodations."

Another sigh. "Fuck. Yeah, all right. Twenty-five. You can stay in Wilson's loft."

That's unexpected. "The great self-sacrificer left you his place to use as you see fit. That's giving with both hands, even for him."

"I called, he said it was fine since it was you. Just empty the trash before you leave and don't dump the dirty sheets in the washer, he'll take care of it when he gets home." Foreman speaks with dry resignation. "This saves me a good chunk of money, so I won't say no. If you have a problem with the arrangements it's yours, not mine. Take it or leave it."

Greg's eyes widen a little. "Wow, you really have gone over to the dark side. So to speak."

"Departments have budgets, in case you haven't heard. When can you get here?" The silent rider is all too obvious: _make it fast_. In this case Greg agrees with him. Time is of the essence, as the old cliché goes.

"We'll drive down," he says. "Tomorrow night's the soonest I can make it. Got a case that's in progress."

"Figured as much," Foreman says, but he sounds interested. "We can set things up so you can ddx with your team as needed, no problem."

"Good. Then we're done," Greg says. "Don't worry, Foreman. The little bald kids will enjoy the balloons and you'll eat those words on the cookie if it kills you." He ends the call before Foreman can respond, and leans back in his chair. After a moment he picks up the phone again.

"Hey," Sarah says. The sound of her voice, bright and musical, eases the latent fear in his thoughts, sends it away like a brisk wind moving clouds over a lightening sky. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Bah," he says, as she expects him to.

"Bah, hah," she says, and cracks up at her own silly joke, that sweet, full laugh he's come to enjoy, maybe even look forward to. "Don't forget to come over tonight for dinner. Bring your best girl and a bottle of wine." She pauses. "What's up?"

How well she knows him. He takes comfort in that knowledge. "Going to Princeton tomorrow with my best girl."

"You talked to Doctor Foreman," she says. "How'd it go?"

He wrestles with telling her, gives in finally, knowing he has to. "There was a moment . . ."

"Flashbacks are to be expected," she says, calm and soft. "Know that they'll show up, that's normal. The thing is not to lose yourself in 'em. Let them pass through you. Acknowledge the past, let it go."

"Be here now," he mocks, but it's a nod to the truth of what she's saying.

"Yes," she says, and he hears the smile in her voice. She knows, she understands, she accepts him; her friendship is the touchstone he will take with him. along with his lover, to remind himself of how things are now, how things have changed. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow," he says. "Not too early. I don't want to give Mandingo any false expectations."

"You know, you do have a higher purpose than tormenting your former fellow," she says dryly.

"Yeah—getting in and out faster than a sailor with a crib girl," he says, just to make her laugh.

"Such a sentimental softie," she says, chuckling. "Have you let Roz know yet?"

"Gonna call her next," he says. "Do you think—" He stops, not sure if he should say anything.

"She could use some distance and perspective," Sarah says. "Going with you is a mixed blessing, but predominantly a good thing."

"Mixed blessing." He pounces on the qualifier. "Explain."

"She's unsure of where she fits in when it comes to your past. She'll need reassurance, even if she doesn't ask for it."

"Not my strong suit," he reminds her. "Given the circumstances, that goes double."

"Make an effort," Sarah says. "Doesn't have to be words, you know that and so does she."

He puts his palm over his thigh, feels the warmth of good flesh and bone, the miracle he'd always hoped for and never dared believe in. "Yeah." He pauses. "How's the search for a class going?"

"Narrowed it down to three contenders," Sarah says. "I'd like your help in the decision."

A pleasant warmth touches him. "You say that _now_."

"I know what I'm in for," she says with a soft chuckle. "That's what I'm counting on, son."

The warmth grows. "Uh huh. I'll remind you of that statement. See you later." He ends the call, dumps the handset in the base and takes his cold coffee to the kitchen, to exchange it for fresh. As he's adding another spoonful of sugar to his mug, Singh comes in.

"Going over these latest test results," he says by way of greeting—a trait Greg likes and encourages; no muss, no fuss, just the facts. "Anemia is indicated, but what's even more interesting is the patient telling me her head hurts all over. I quote, 'me hurtin' here', with her hands moving over her skull."

Greg stirs his coffee. "All the time, or just now and then?"

"Now and then, but her mother says she's been complaining of pain more frequently in the last two months or so." Singh dumps his coffee in the sink and picks up the carafe. "Combined with the purpura, it makes me think we've got two separate diseases going on in tandem."

"We know Fallot's the first one," Greg says, and leans against the counter. He sips his coffee. "You've got a candidate for the second."

"A possible candidate, yes," Singh says. "Antiphospholipid syndrome."

Greg raises his brows. "You want to look for anticardiolipin antibodies."

"Yup." Singh puts a bit of cream in his coffee, sneaks in a little more. Greg watches him, amused.

"Fine by me. Clue in Chandler and Chase and keep an eye on any developments in the headaches. You know if it is AS, she could end up with seizures or blood clots in her organs or extremities," he says. "Have the Coumadin ready just in case and let Wirth know. I'm gonna be away for a few days."

Singh glances at him. "Vacation?"

"Consult. New Jersey."

"Princeton," Singh says, clearly not guessing. When Greg nods, he chuckles. "I knew it would only be a matter of time before they asked you to come in and deal with something they can't handle." He takes a paper napkin in his free hand, uses it to take another roll from the basket on the counter. "Okay, boss. I think we can finish this one up for you. Stay in touch all the same though, if you don't mind." He goes back to the conference room. Greg watches him and knows this case is nearly done; it's in good hands. He takes his mug back with him to his office and settles in to make one more call, this time to the house.

"Hey _amante_," Roz says when she answers. "What's up?"

He settles into his chair. "Pack your bag. We're headed to Princeton tomorrow. In the meantime, if you wanna talk dirty to me in honor of the day, I'm listening," he says, and basks in the sound of her low, soft voice as she does exactly that.

'_Gonzo', James Booker_

'_Unsquare Dance', Dave Brubeck Quartet_

'_Lost in My Mind', The Head and the Heart_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like big heart-shaped cookies-you can never have too many! :)_**


	5. Chapter 5

_February 22nd_

_9:30 a.m._

"You're sure this is what you want to do."

Roz glanced at Greg, but he wasn't looking at her. The casual tone was belied by the tight grip of his hands on the steering wheel.

"It's just a little window shopping," she said, and tried not to sound defensive. "I'm—I'm not used to being home all the time." Seven days worth of mooning around the loft had been six days too many as far as she was concerned. Wilson's place was comfortable, clean and dead boring; she'd tried several new recipes, caught up on movies, tv episodes and even cleaned out her inbox-twice.

"I can't drop everything to come get you when you decide you've had enough." Now Greg did look at her, his vivid gaze piercing. Roz felt her hackles rise and fought to smooth them down. An argument was the last thing she wanted right now, nor did she wish to start a battle over his unwillingness to introduce her to his coworkers.

"No one's expecting you to," she said. "But if you really don't—" She bit her lip and looked out the window.

"Guilt tripping me won't work," Greg said. He sounded terse, but Roz heard anxiety in the snap of his reply, a familiar faint echo. This wasn't about her going out, or at least not completely; he was worried about the case. She relaxed a bit.

"I've never seen Princeton, and it's been a while since I did a little window-shopping in a different town," she said quietly. "They have cabs here, right? I can call one to take me to the loft when I'm done. Or you could meet me for dinner somewhere."

Greg snorted. "We'll probably end up in the cafeteria, Original Home of Food Poisoning."

"That's okay with me," Roz said. She hoped they'd find something a little better than steam-table offerings and fountain sodas; still, if that was what her husband could manage, she'd accept it.

"Liar," he said, but this time he couldn't stop a slight smile.

"I just need a few hours to stretch my legs and look around," she said. "You can call me, you know that."

"It's a university town," he said after a brief silence. "Lots of disgustingly quirky little hole in the wall places, cafes, boutiques. Boring as hell, but good for a once-through."

Roz recognized this for as much of a concession as she was ever going to get. "I could use a new pair of jeans," she said, straight-faced. Greg shot a quick glare at her.

"Huh. Fine, I'll dump you off on Nassau Street. That's what passes for the main drag around here."

And he did just that, letting her out on a street corner. "Got money?" he asked as the driver behind them blared an indignant horn at their holding up traffic.

"Yes. Call me if you get a chance," Roz said, and leaned in to kiss him. His lips were a little chapped but warm and responsive. When the kiss ended he looked down at her.

"Keep in mind you're a broke electrician chick," he said, but faint humor gleamed in his vivid eyes. The horn sounded again. Roz gave him a quick buss.

"See you later," she said, and climbed out, to watch Barbarella leave her behind in a steady stream of cars. The sight made her throat tighten a bit but she shook her head at her foolishness and turned away, more than ready for a little adventure.

She had a light but delicious breakfast of house blend coffee and a chocolate croissant at Small World Café, and chose a seat by the storefront window, looking out over the street. The map on her phone indicated rich pickings, as Greg had suggested; plenty of small shops and stores, more than enough to keep her occupied for the day. Roz felt her mood lighten for the first time since their arrival. She sipped her coffee and considered the situation.

They'd arrived in town a week ago, and since that time Greg had grown silent, uncommunicative, withdrawn; there was a sharper edge to his replies when he did speak, and he tended to shoot first and ask questions later. She was reminded strongly of the man she'd met while working on Sarah's office. It was clear he was reliving old memories here, and equally clear he was doing his best to keep his remembrances from her, mainly by isolating her in Wilson's loft. She'd been patient and understanding, which had the effect of allowing him to ignore her, for the most part. Well, she called bullshit on that tactic; she was done with being set aside. Time for a different strategy. She took a sip of coffee and pulled up a number. Before she lost her courage she dialed it and waited.

"You have reached Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," the smooth automated voice informed her. "To inquire about a patient, press one . . ."

She worked her way through the menu and left a message with Doctor Cuddy's assistant. "Please let her know Doctor House's wife called and would like to meet her for lunch if she has the time," she said, and hoped she didn't sound as nervous as she felt.

"Her schedule's pretty crowded but I'll let her know," the assistant said, and just that quickly the call was done. Roz finished her coffee, took the plate and cup to the counter and tucked a decent tip in the jar, then went out into the frosty morning.

She was browsing the second-hand section at Labyrinth Books when her phone rang. It was Cuddy.

"Good morning, Mrs. House. I understand you're exploring the wilds of downtown Princeton."

"Good morning, and yes I am. Please call me Roz."

Cuddy chuckled softly. "Thanks for that. You have _no_ idea how strange it is to call someone 'Mrs. House'."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Roz said dryly, which elicited another chuckle.

"Point taken. It just so happens I'm open for lunch. Would you like me to choose the place?"

Roz considered her options. Allowing Cuddy to control the setting might be a tactical error, but this wasn't exactly a battle, and the other woman wasn't really an enemy—more an unknown quantity . . . might as well take a chance and see how things fell out. She drew a steadying breath. "Yes, if you would please. I can map it."

"Let's see . . . there's this great little place on Hulfish Street, the Infini-T. They do fantastic specials and both coffee and tea," Cuddy said. "And they don't charge you a fortune in the process. It's a nice change from cafeteria stodge. Might be a bit of a hike from where you are now, though."

"I could stand a good walk," Roz said. "Noonish, then? Or later?"

"Let's try for one, if that's all right. It gets us past the lunchtime rush." There was a pause. "You know House will find out."

"It's not a secret," Roz said. "Although whatever we talk about is confidential, if that's how you want it."

"Let's see how it goes." Cuddy's voice became brisk. "See you at one—um, Roz. And please call me Lisa. 'Doctor Cuddy' is a little formal under the circumstances."

_And what circumstances would those be?_ Roz wondered as she ended the call. _Wife sizing up former lover? Old girlfriend checking out replacement? _She shook her head. _You're the one who wanted this meeting. Stop making assumptions about someone you don't know, and let her show you who she is. That's what Hazel suggested, anyway._

She ended up buying a couple of paperbacks and several magazines—Wilson had no books to speak of in his place, and she'd finished the novel she'd brought with her. The knowledge that she had something to read gave her some comfort. With renewed energy she hit the street and began window-shopping in earnest.

It was nearly one by the time Roz reached the café Cuddy had suggested. She'd kept her spending to a minimum, but hadn't been able to resist a great pair of vintage bell-bottom jeans and earrings with little rock crystal moons and stars on slender silver strands, sparkly and gaudy and great fun. She wore the earrings now, partly because it was one less package to carry, partly out of an odd sense of defiance. The strands brushed her skin as she entered the café and breathed in the fragrance of fresh baked goods, coffee and tea, as well as spices. It reminded her of Poppi's place: good food created by good cooks. Cuddy had that in her favor at least.

"Welcome." A younger woman approached with a friendly smile and handed Roz a menu. "Today's specials are listed in the front. Come up to the counter when you've decided what you'd like."

Roz thanked her and chose a table not too far from the door. The place was emptying out from the lunchtime crowd, but still held a good number of people. Servers bustled by with large mugs of coffee and tea. Roz opened the menu and scanned the contents.

"The _masala chai_ latte is to die for," someone said. Roz looked up. An older woman with dark hair and light blue eyes stood by the table, smiling down at her. She wore a black cashmere coat with a golden silk scarf draped around her neck, and fine leather gloves. "I get mine with soy milk but it's still pretty good." She took the seat opposite Roz and offered a hand. "You must be Roz House. Nice to meet you at last, I'm Lisa Cuddy."

Roz reached out and shook Cuddy's hand, aware of her scarred arm, though it was hidden from view. "Nice to meet you too," she said, even as she regretted the impulse to put on the earrings. Her shabby coat and homemade muffler were bad enough. _Oh well,_ she thought. _You are what you are, a small-town, blue-collar girl. It's not like she didn't already know that._ "I've got the menu, do you know what you want or would you like a little time to look over the specials?"

"Hot noodles," Cuddy said. "Today's my treat though, so I'll take the order. What would you like?"

Roz studied her for a moment. "Thanks. I'll have the same," she said with a slight smile.

When they arrived, the noodles smelled and looked delicious—freshly made and sauteed with ginger and garlic, various spices and a sweet-and-hot sauce made with chunks of fresh vegetables, carrots, green peppers and thinly sliced cabbage, all of which suited the dish perfectly, as did the cups of pearl jasmine tea which accompanied the bowls.

"Nothing better on a cold day," Cuddy said. She wrapped an intricate skein of noodles, vegetables and sauce around a chopstick and took a bite, eyes closing in bliss. Roz knew this technique; she'd used it enough times to eat spaghetti, though of course with a fork and knife. It took a bit of maneuvering, but she managed to get a mouthful. Flavors exploded on her tongue. She set down the chopsticks, savoring the unexpected sensations.

"Wow," she said when she could speak. Cuddy grinned at her.

"Great minds think alike," she said, and laughed softly.

Looking back later, Roz could see more clearly that much of the subsequent conversation had been silent. True, they hadn't really talked that much anyway, mostly the kind of introductory chit-chat required by convention, but under it all had been a sort of . . . inspection, for lack of a better word-especially when the topic turned to Greg, as Roz knew it would. They'd long since finished eating and progressed to second cups of tea.

"He can be difficult when he's preoccupied or feels inadequate." Cuddy's words were carefully chosen, her tone neutral. _Will you take care of him when he pushes you away? _

"He needs someone to challenge him a little, sometimes. From what he's told me, you often did just that." Roz sipped her tea. _I'll be truthful, but I love him too, and I'll make sure he always knows it._

Cuddy looked down at her cup, stirred it absently. "We have a . . . history. But that's been done for a while now." _I loved him once. Maybe I still do, a little._

Roz nodded. "It took me some time to get to know him. He's good at pushing people away." _I love all of him, even the armor he wears to drive people off._

Cuddy smiled, though her gaze held a hint of sadness. "He enjoys making a puzzle out of relationships." _Boredom is the end. Don't let him think he knows all of you, or he'll walk._

Roz sat back, cup in hand. "I do read Scientific American," she said, her tone wry, and Cuddy laughed. It was easy to see then why Greg had loved her; the other woman had temporarily slipped the mask of power and position, whether by design or accident, it didn't really matter. She was intensely alive, vibrant and open and ready to enjoy herself, her gaze sparkling with humor. Roz held her breath at the imperfect beauty on display, the faint edge of insecurity behind it all. No wonder Greg had kept trying with her.

"Well, you've got me beat there," Cuddy said with a grin. "I can barely keep up with the journals my assistant has me subscribed to." She picked up her cup. "You're an electrician, right? Good with math, good at rational thought."

"Most of the time," Roz said. Her amusement faded when she thought of the miscarriage. "Not always."

"What happened? If I may ask," Cuddy said. Roz looked down at the tabletop. Of course Cuddy would know it was a discrete incident and not just a general statement; that talent for discernment undoubtedly helped make her a better-than-average administrator.

"It was . . . something unexpected," she said. "Something neither of us had planned on, and it . . . it derailed my train of thought completely for a while. But he stayed anyway."

Silence fell amid the background noise of other people talking, the clatter and hiss of the kitchen work. When Roz lifted her gaze it was to find Cuddy watching her with compassion and understanding, her warmth plain, for the moment at least.

"I'd better get back," she said after a few moments. "You're welcome to come with me."

Roz smiled and shook her head. _I won't go to his workplace until he takes me there himself__._ "I'd like to visit the Record Exchange and also pick up a few odds and ends for dinner tonight. Thanks for lunch."

"Any time. Maybe I should crash dinner." It was offered as a joke but Roz decided to take it seriously.

"You'd be welcome," she said, and meant it. Cuddy paused in the act of putting on her coat.

"Okay," she said, and sounded uncertain but pleased. "Okay, well—maybe we can set something up before you leave. It's obvious you're a great cook. Greg's been driving everyone crazy with the leftovers you're sending to work with him."

"I learned from the best," Roz said. "I can do vegan too, by the way." She got to her feet and put out her hand. "It was good to meet you finally, Lisa. I'm glad . . ." She hesitated, then decided to go with the impulse. "I'm glad Greg has you for a friend."

Cuddy stood perfectly still. "You know," she said slowly, "I don't think anyone else would be able to say that and mean it, but I know you do." She took Roz's hand in hers. "Thanks. It's—it's my honor." She made a noise that could have been a laugh. "Honor and Greg House—two things I never thought would ever go together." She let go and finished buttoning her coat, tucked the scarf into the opening and nodded. "Enjoy your afternoon."

Roz watched Cuddy depart, her stride brisk, efficient—the administrator on her way to meetings, calls, paperwork demanding her attention. _Maybe that's part of the reason why he and I are lovers__,_ Roz thought. _Honor and Greg House _do_ go together, though he doesn't like people to think so._

"Are you done?" The server hovered with a clearing tray. Roz glanced at her.

"Yup," she said, and put on her coat as the younger woman began to gather up bowls and cups.

She spent the rest of the afternoon at the Record Exchange, then a tiny little kitchen shop crammed with spices and oil and fresh pasta, and finally a wine and spirits store that held a number of treasures. By the time she reached the loft she was ready to put everything away and take a nap; her arms ached and her feet were a little sore. _Out of shape_, she scolded herself. _When you get home you need to get busy._

But doing what? She thought about it while she put the groceries away. Of course she planned to start her own business—quite a few of her regular customers had already told her they had no interest in dealing with Kyle, so she didn't think finding work would be a problem. And yet the idea of crawling around in filthy attics and basements for the rest of her career held little appeal, if any.

The ringing of her phone interrupted her thoughts. It was Greg. "Heard you had lunch with the boss," he said when she answered. "Comparing notes, no doubt."

Roz paused. "No," she said. "I've never met her, so I called and asked her to meet me so we could get to know each other a bit."

"And you didn't bother to invite me. I'm hurt." He sounded anything but. Roz felt her temper rise.

"I did not go behind your back. We've been here a week and you haven't bothered to even ask me if I'd like to see where you used to work, let alone meet anyone."

"Oh, here we go with you feeling like I don't think you're good enough to be my wife, or whatever stupid idea you've got stuffed in that stubborn Italian brain of yours." he snapped. "Just so you know, I'm not here to play tour guide and ambassador, and you're not here to collect old gossip. If you can't handle it you can go home."

Roz resisted the urge to hang up and do just that, at considerable expense to him. "_Amante_," she said quietly. "I'm here because you invited me. Remember? I could have stayed in New York."

"You had your own reasons for meeting Cuddy."

"Yeah, I did," she said simply. "I've been jealous of her for a long time. I wanted—I wanted to see . . . why you loved her. So I—I took the opportunity to meet her."

After a few moments of silence he sighed. "I don't have time for this."

"You don't have to make time for anything. I just said everything I have to say. If you want to say anything back, it's up to you." Roz swallowed and realized she couldn't speak without letting him know she was on the verge of tears. She ended the call and turned off her phone, looked around at the items she hadn't put away, and went off to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. At least the loft was quiet during the day. She took off the earrings and set them on the nightstand, crawled into bed and pulled the coverlet over her, watched the watery winter sunbeams as they slanted through the window, and drifted into sleep.

It was dark when she woke. Slowly she stretched and picked up the travel alarm. It was after six; she'd been out for a couple of hours. She got up and went into the living room, switching on lamps as she moved toward the kitchen, glad of the soft warm glow of light. There was no radio, so she turned the tv on, found a local channel and finished putting away her purchases while she listened to the news.

She decided on a simple dinner—chicken in white wine with a little olive oil and some greens, a bit of leftover _risotto_ from the night before. She'd eaten alone every night except their first here, and after the phone conversation she was sure that wouldn't change. So it was something of a surprise to have the door bang open just as she put her plate on the table. Greg stood in the doorway, hunched in his pea coat. He glowered at her but made no move to enter.

"Come in," Roz said finally. "You're letting all the warm air out." She got up as he closed the door behind him and found another plate, took a fork out of the drawer. Without saying anything she put them on the table.

They ate in silence, the tv chattering away in the background. Greg had two helpings and devoured the food like a ravening wolf. Roz could see he was exhausted; his hands shook, and his face was pale. When she was done she took her plate to the sink and left it there, returned to stand behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders. He tried to pull away from her touch.

"You don't have to fluff me!" he growled. Roz kept her hands where they were.

"I'm not," she said. "I'm upset with you, but you're tired and you're hurting, and right now that's more important. We can fight later." She began to rub his shoulders, keeping her touch gentle.

"Such a fucking saint," he sneered, but he stopped his escape attempts. Roz continued her massage, saying nothing. Gradually Greg settled into the chair. His head tipped down a bit. She moved her hands to the strong muscles in the join of his neck and shoulders; there were hard knots there. She worked them gently, coaxing the tightness out with her fingers. She'd been at it for several minutes when he reached up, put his hands over hers.

"Why do you put up with me?" he whispered. "_Why?_"

"Because I love you," she said, and bent down a bit to kiss the bald spot on top of his head. He drew in a shuddering breath. His fingers closed on hers, held them tight.

"You shouldn't," he said. "It's stupid."

"Then I'm stupid," she said. He squeezed her gently.

She took him into the bedroom after that, pausing just long enough to turn off the tv and some of the lights. Cleaning up could wait until tomorrow. Once he was sitting on the bed she got him to take off his clothes and put on a clean tee and flannel sleep pants, then ditched everything she had on except for her undies, grabbed a tank top out of her suitcase, pulled it on and got into bed with him. She slipped her arms around him and held him close.

"We're close to solving the case," he said after a while. His voice was slow and thick, and anyone else would have thought he'd been taking drugs, but she knew it was exhaustion—she'd heard it before. "Close, but I can't . . . I can't . . . can't get it right somehow . . . it won't fit together . . ."

"You're way too tired to think straight," she said softly. "Get some sleep. Maybe in the morning you'll be able to figure it out."

He sighed and buried his face in her hair, already sliding into oblivion. Roz cradled him with care and reached up to turn off the light.

When she woke in the morning, it was to find Greg sitting next to her. He had one of her earrings; it dangled from his fingers, glittering in the weak light.

"These are new," he said. Roz stretched and sat up a little.

"Yeah, I got 'em at the boutique where I found the jeans. The artist likes to work with rock crystal because it's colorless, so it goes with just about everything . . ." She trailed off. Greg stared down at the earring, eyes wide.

"Colorless," he whispered. "Vitiligo, poliosis, alopecia—loss of pigment . . ." He tossed the earring on the nightstand and got up, peeled off his flannels and tee shirt, and dumped his suitcase on the bed, to fling clothes right and left, looking for something to wear. Roz climbed out, pushed his hands away and offered him jeans, socks and a tee, then went to the closet for an oxford shirt. He pulled it all on in record time, hauled her into his arms and gave her a kiss that scorched the breath right out of her. "Got it," he said when it was done, and set her aside to take off out of the room. Roz went after him to find him struggling to get his coat on with his phone to his ear.

"I'm telling you it's Vogt-Kayanagi-Harada," he snarled. "Patient's headed into the convalescent phase, that's why none of it made any sense! Get an LP done stat—yeah I _know_ the kid's gonna fight, get the parents, get duct tape, get fucking superglue, I don't care! Just do the damn puncture!" He stuffed the phone into his pocket as Roz put his arm into the sleeve. He pulled away from her, turned around, brought her close.

"We're going out tonight," he said, and kissed her with even more fervor than he had just a few minutes earlier. Roz thought she might have sparks shooting out of the top of her head, like a fountain firework. "Get dressed up. Have to look good for the team." He stared down at her. "We're supposed to have a fight. Aren't we? A fight about Cuddy?"

Roz felt the laugh come bubbling up and didn't bother to stop it. "No we aren't," she said, grinning like a fool. "Get going. I'll see you later tonight."

"Yeah." He stole another kiss. "Wear the earrings. You didn't bring a dress. Go get one." He dug in his other coat pocket and tossed her his wallet. "There's money in there, get something nice."

"Greg, you need your license to drive!" She handed him back the wallet. "I brought one good outfit, don't worry." She kissed his cheek. "_Ti amo_," she whispered. He touched her face, his eyes bright with love—and respect, she realized with an almighty shock. Then he was gone, the door banging behind him just as it did at home. Roz watched him go, tingling from top to bottom, not quite sure what had just happened, but aware that she was pleased. More than pleased—wildly happy, and delighted to be so.

That evening she made her entrance into the restaurant in her dark green silk sweater, black velvet pants, and a pair of Italian slippers that had cost her just about every penny left in her bank account. Above it all the cheap crystal earrings glittered and swung, taking pride of place for one night.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like shoes-one just isn't enough :D **_


	6. Chapter 6

**_(Thanks to everyone who's favorited my story and also me as author. As always, I'm deeply honored._**

**_I had planned to do more with House in Princeton, but RL decided to derail my train of thought with something truly unexpected. I'm working on regrouping my ideas for this story and will do my best to bring my ideas in through another narrative line. -B) _**

_February 23rd_

_7:30 p.m._

The restaurant where the team has decided to hold the get-together is nothing like the bland, stuffy dive Greg had expected: first off, it's in Philadelphia. And it's actually something of an Old City hot spot, with a bar dispensing the driest of martinis along with an impressive array of whiskeys, small-label liquors and organic sulfite-free wines. The dinner menu is simple, a hipster's wet dream; there's a choice of several entrees and sides made to order from local produce and meats, along with simple desserts and fair-trade coffee and chocolate. There's even a live band, a harp and fiddle with accordion and penny whistle playing lively modern Celtic folk, in honor of impending Saint Patrick's Day, undoubtedly. All in all, very chi-chi. And yet he'd rather be home—_so it's really home now_, he thinks in fearful amazement—in Sarah's kitchen with Cailleach or the Chieftains playing and herself singing along while she kneads bread, as snow falls soft and slow outside . . . or in his own home, with his wife curled up asleep next to him on the couch while he watches basketball or some stupid old action flick from ages past . . . He drags his attention back to the present and focuses with some difficulty.

Conclusion: someone's trying to impress him. Most likely not Cuddy; that would leave Foreman. It's a good measure of how insecure the other man must feel. For just this once however, Greg doesn't give in to the urge to mock his former fellow. Maybe it's because the case was resolved successfully and he can get the hell out of Princeton in the morning. More likely however, he just can't be bothered. He doesn't want to think about why that is—he'll discuss it with his shrink eventually, of that there's no doubt. So instead he sits back with his three-olive martini, ordered in defiance of the omnipresent glasses of wine, and watches his wife. She looks great; in the mellow lamplight her angular features are softened into near-beauty, her thick dark hair ruffled a bit, the greeny-black silk sweater gleaming and lustrous against her golden skin. The epiphany earrings spark and swing as she talks to Taub, says something to make him chuckle. They've hit it off, probably because they know each other from Taub's stay in New York during the scar removal. Still, they do share a similar dry sense of humor, appreciative of the absurd nature of life. Greg is fairly certain they've also connected because Taub doesn't find Roz attractive, therefore he's able to view her as something other than a quick, furtive fuck. That's a good thing for the Large-Nosed One. Greg really would prefer not to have to pound him into a sticky pile of pulp.

"Thinking deep thoughts?" Cuddy perches next to him, white wine in hand. She looks nice this evening. He's noticed that she's gained a pound or two, but it looks fine on her, not that he'd ever say so. For all his teasing about her ginormous ass he'd always thought she was a little too thin, no doubt from all the wear and tear of dealing with him along with the administration of a busy teaching hospital. She's wearing red tonight—an unusual color choice, but it highlights her soignee charms. Still, he doesn't get that she's coming on to him. Maybe that meeting with Roz was more beneficial than he'd realized.

"Nope," he says, and sips his martini. Cuddy looks where he's looking. After a moment she smiles just a little.

"I won't make the mistake of being obvious and pointing out that she's good for you," she says in that wry tone he knows so well. "What I will say is she's more than you deserve. I hope you know that."

"Yup." He pops an olive, enjoys the savory taste as it highlights the clean bitterness of the vermouth. "Get on Foreman to find another case, or he'll use this one to goof off for at least a week."

"Already done." Cuddy sits back a bit. "I do work with him on a daily basis."

"He bamboozled you into having this shindig in Philly. I'd say his powers of persuasion are greater than yours."

She raises her brows. "Actually I chose this venue myself, believe it or not. One of our younger donors recommended it. Foreman thought it was a good idea."

Well, he was half-right. So she's shmoozing a human ATM-there are worse reasons for selecting a place to hang out. Greg munches the olive and says nothing.

"House, come on. I take a contributor's advice now and then," she says, smiling. Greg levels a look at her.

"Bet he owns the place."

She has the grace to blush.

Eventually she goes off to talk to someone else, and he's alone. But not for long. Roz comes to sit next to him. She's drinking a craft beer, some micro-brew that sounds pretty good if the label is anything to go by.

"How about dinner?" she says with a slight smile. "Steak and fries?"

"I say we leave this gig and eat, starting with each other," he says with a leer, just to watch her eyes widen and her pupils dilate. She doesn't disappoint. Then she leans forward and brushes a soft kiss over his lips, in full view of everyone there.

"Anticipation, _amante_," she whispers. "Dinner first."

He deepens the kiss just to see what she'll do, whether she'll resist or pull back because they're in public. Without hesitation she follows his lead and strokes his tongue with hers, leaving him in no doubt that she wants him and doesn't care who knows it; she tastes of hops and herself, a spicy combination. Her hand comes up to caress his cheek. When they're finished Greg catches Foreman looking away hastily, but it's still possible to glimpse the disbelief in the other man's gaze. Then Roz fills his vision, her face close to his for a moment. He sees love there, and amusement. She knows exactly what he's up to, and she's willing to participate. A soft chuckle escapes him. She quirks her lips, a wicked little smirk, and sits back a bit to sip her beer.

So they have steak—his is a thick ribeye grilled to perfection, hers a hanger cut thin-sliced in a salad with fresh micro-greens and a delicious avocado dressing, Greg knows that because he sneaks a taste—and a big plate of hand-cut _frites, _hot and sizzling with duck fat, shared between them. It's excellent, and he gets the added benefit of watching his wife enjoy a good meal she didn't cook herself. Everyone else is there now with them, and there's talk and gossip and laughter—the same thing that always goes on at gatherings like this. And yet things are different. While he's still on the outside looking in, it doesn't hurt anymore because he's got his own clique, a party of two, and he's happy to be in it.

"One of your tribe is missing tonight," he says to Foreman. "The mousy one. Masters." The young woman had taken one look at him, uttered a faint, horrified squeak and done her best to stay out of his way, which of course meant he'd had to drag her into the center of things as often as possible. Actually he'd been surprised at her ability to cope—she was smart enough, but an annoying tendency to moralize and doubt in her own intelligence limited her results.

"She generally doesn't participate in anything outside work," Foreman says, in a tone that indicates he's not heartbroken over the situation. "As long as she does her job, that's good enough for me."

"Antisocial," Greg says. "There's hope for her yet."

"She's not you," Foreman says. "But she's got the knack for working a differential. At least when she's not intimidated by the doctor who created the department in the first place." He catches Greg's sardonic look. "Hey, even you didn't bat a thousand."

"Blasphemer." Greg steals a fry and munches it. "Bet you love those morning coffee sessions with Cuddy."

"They were more interesting when Wilson was here," Foreman says, surprising him with his honesty.

"No one gets hot, juicy gossip faster than the Panty Peeler of Princeton-Plainsboro," Greg says, and takes another fry. "Cuddy still serving cheap joe?"

Foreman chuckles. "I can drink Sumatran fair trade in my own office," he says, and sits back. His silk suit gleams in the tastefully subdued light. "How's it going in New York?"

"Got 'em lined up," Greg says in absolute truth. "We could probably expand to twenty beds and it wouldn't be enough."

"So why don't you?" Foreman watches him, clearly baffled. "You'd make a fortune and help far more people than you do now. Win-win for everyone."

"Factory diagnosis," Greg says, as if he's mulling it over. "Slappin' 'em out like burgers at McDonald's. There's a thought."

"You'd still be working case by case. Don't tell me you haven't considered it. You've got Chase. And I've heard Reynard is on your team for consults." Foreman leans back a bit. "You could easily bring in plenty of students. I'm sure you get a stack of resumes every day." He hesitates. "We're thinking about expanding here. Not only would it generate income, it would offer more opportunities for residents to observe and learn."

Greg doesn't bother to tell Foreman he's got a protégé, someone who presumably will follow in his footsteps. Chase is the interim successor, but Greg's soon-to-be student will be the one to take the clinic to greater heights, more than likely. The kid doesn't know it yet, but he's got the ambition, the brains and the willpower to make it happen. "It's not about the money, or the number of patients," he says. _I'm not surprised you haven't figured that out,_ his tone implies. Foreman's expression darkens.

"So they're still just a puzzle to you, a way to pass the time." He shakes his head. "I hoped maybe with a change in environment and some help from your analyst you'd be able to see them as people. You got off the Vicodin, or at least that's what you're telling us. Too bad the rest didn't happen."

"You don't see them as people either, so don't bother to castigate me for being truthful." Greg fights an urge to stand up, yank down his jeans and reveal Thigh 2.0. Instead he sips his martini—third one of the night, and just as beautifully dry and balanced as the first—and shuts up. After a moment Foreman gets to his feet.

"Against my better judgment, your consult privileges with us stand," he says, and heads off to the bar. Greg watches him go, prey to a mixture of emotions, none of them to his liking.

"That's gratitude for you," he says under his breath, and finishes off his drink. He's about to get another one when he's prevented from doing so.

"Hey," Roz says. She drops into the chair next to his. The epiphany earrings swing and spark. "Are we done here? Please say yes."

He looks at her. She looks back, her gaze steady and bright. "Why yes, as a matter of fact we are," he says. "Let's go."

She drives, since she had just the one beer and it was a while ago; he gives her occasional instructions, listens to Springsteen's _Born To Run_ album in honor of the occasion, and watches the Philly skyline gradually disappear in the rear view mirror as 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' and 'Night' and 'Backstreets' plays. They travel up I-95 from Old City to Fishtown, Kensington and Port Richmond-bad neighborhoods in the midst of intense drug wars and gentrification fights-and across the Betsy Ross Bridge into New Jersey, on the north side of Cherry Hill and Mount Laurel. They move through Burlington Township and Bordentown and White Horse, past the open sore that is Trenton, into Mercer County and Laurence Township, and finally Princeton Borough, the place passing for home sweet home, at least tonight.

The loft actually looks inviting in the yellow lamplight, it's black-and-white severity warmed and softened. Roz puts the keys in his pea-coat pocket and dumps her own coat on the sofa, rolls her shoulders and stretches a little. Greg understands then that this has been something of an ordeal for her, though she hasn't said anything. He's about to make a comment when his phone rings. It's Chase.

"Tests confirm our patient has AS," he says. "We'll talk with the patient's family in the morning." He hesitates. "How's it going? How's everyone?"

"They still all hate you. We'll talk tomorrow when I'm back," Greg says, and hangs up on Chase's reluctant chuckle. He shuts off the phone and unbuttons his coat, tosses it on top of Roz's. The phone follows.

"You should charge it," Roz calls from the kitchen.

"What, the coat? Don't think it works that way."

"Ha ha." She emerges to stand in the doorway, smiling at him. "You know if you don't charge the phone and you miss a call, you'll be pissed off."

He mock-glares at her. "Think you're so smart."

"I _know_ I'm so smart." She gives him a bump-and-grind, her way of teasing him when she thinks she's right about something. He grabs the phone and goes into the bedroom, stuffs the stupid thing into the charger, and turns to find Roz right behind him. She doesn't even bother to say anything, just wraps her arms around him and gives him a kiss that makes him hard so fast he groans into her mouth. She breaks off and laughs softly, her hands sliding up to his neck, her strong, slender fingers playing with his hair.

_with her killer graces_

_and her secret places_

_that no boy can fill_

_with her hands on her hips _

_oh, and that smile on her lips_

_because she knows that it kills me_

They fall to the bed together in slow motion, and he's already got his hands under her shirt, cupping those small breasts, smiling to find her nipples hard. She arches up underneath him, gasping softly as he takes her mouth, his knee between her thighs to mark place while they tug and pull on clothes and laugh at their mutual impatience. Then she's lying beneath him, stars and moons glittering in her sable hair, her eyes green as a cat's and full of the most amazing secrets, all for him, only him.

_with her long hair falling_

_and her eyes that shine like a midnight sun_

_oh she's the one_

_she's the one_

He runs his hand down her flat belly to the sweet little cleft at the top of her thighs, rubs his thumb over her clitoris just to make her open to him. When he slides in she welcomes him, lifting so that he fills her on that first sweet push. They buck and writhe and moan and make wild, noisy love, the bed creaking in a way that would have Wilson clenching his teeth and probably his anus too, in mingled envy and disapproval at the chaos and uproar.

It's a little later, when they're both on the edge of sleep, that she says "You don't have anything to prove to them, you know." Her fingers move a strand of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, a slow caress. "That's why they kept you on the outside looking in, all that time. They know it too."

"I had as much to do with that as they did," he says, pushed as always to be truthful, no matter what the cost.

"Maybe so. But they could have met you halfway, and they never did. They tried to set everything up on their terms alone, which makes no sense to me." She raises up on one elbow and looks down at him. "You're not just some guy who made it through medical school and residency and all that. You're _you_. You're who you're supposed to be, you've never pretended to be anything else, at least it seems that way to me. And they couldn't handle it, so they tried to get you to be someone else, and the whole time they still wanted you to be you. Just when it suited them. That's just stupid." She runs her finger in a gentle line under his bottom lip. "Their loss, my gain."

He looks up at her, gauging her sincerity. She gazes down at him. Then she leans in and kisses him, a soft, lingering exploration that somehow puts everything they just did to utter shame for intensity and pleasure and pure sweetness. "My gain," she says once more against his lips, and smiles. "I'm so glad for that at least, _amante_."

_and tonight you'll try_

_just one more time_

_to leave it all behind_

_and to break on through_

He watches her fall asleep finally, and thinks about what she said. It's a perspective he's never really let himself think about much, because that way lay more madness than even he could handle. But maybe she's right just a little. All he knows is that now he's in a better place than he's ever been before, and no small part of it is due to the woman drowsing in his arms, not some just-missed opportunity but here, warm and real.

_oh and just one kiss_

_she'd fill them long summer nights_

_with her tenderness_

_that secret pact you made_

_back when her love could save you_

_from the bitterness_

_oh she's the one_

[H]

_February 24th_

_7 a.m._

He wakes to the smell of fresh coffee and something baking. With a soft groan he rolls on his side and puts his arm over his eyes, unwilling to surface.

The next thing he knows, small hands are gently rubbing his back. "Mmmmm . . ." he purrs, unable to help himself, knowing this is a tactical mistake. Sure enough:

"Time to get up." Roz presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Breakfast is ready. I made Pop Tarts in the oven."

Greg lifts his arm and opens one eye. Pop Tarts are a secret weakness, and she knows it all too well. "What kind?"

"Strawberry, no icing," she says. "There's melted butter too. And scrambled eggs." She kisses him again, this time on the temple. "Come on, I need to strip the bed and get things washed."

With reluctance he sits up. "Wilson said we didn't have to clean anything," he grumbles.

"He was being polite. I'm not leaving a messy house, for him to have a heart attack when he walks in."

Greg cocks an eye at Roz. "I bet you just sounded like your grandmother."

She gives his butt a light smack. "Go eat breakfast."

By the time he's eaten, packed his stuff and hers and loaded up the car, she's putting clean sheets on the bed right out of the dryer, and the dishwasher's been emptied as well. "The fridge is ready to be unplugged again too," she says, and tucks a sheet corner with neat precision.

So they leave the loft the way they found it, spotless and empty. Well . . . except for the big box of ribbed neon-green condoms and economy-size bottle of cherry-flavored lube perched atop the nightstand.

"Can't wait to be home," Roz says as they roar off down the street. She pops a Coleman Hawkins CD in the player and settles back to sip her coffee.

"Me too," Greg says, and smiles at the truth in the words.

_'She's The One', Bruce Springsteen_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews are like Pop Tarts-best when hot and buttery! ;)_**


	7. Chapter 7

**_(If this chapter is showing up as written in all italics, it's FF gremlins at work. This is NOT a dream or a flashback, I just can't get the italics function to turn off right now. GRRRRR-B)_**

_March 1st_

_10:30 a.m._

Sarah licked her finger, turned a page in the old cookbook and frowned down at it. She was certain she had her grandmother's recipe for Guinness chocolate cake tucked away in here somewhere . . . It had been years since she'd made it, but lately she'd had a taste for it. It would make a nice dessert for Saint Pat's.

She turned another page as someone knocked at the back door. "In here!" she called, and looked up with a smile, expecting her oldest boy. Instead she found his wife standing there, her slender form bundled in her old coat and muffler, cheeks rosy from the cold.

"Good morning," Sarah said, surprised but pleased. She set the cookbook aside and came forward to give Roz a hug. "I thought you were Greg."

"I'm sure he'll show up eventually, he's been making noises about coming to see you. Mostly complaints, of course," Roz said, and smiled when Sarah chuckled. She returned the embrace, then took off her outdoor things and went to hang them up in the mudroom.

"Would you like some coffee?" Sarah went to the cupboard to get the bag.

"How about tea instead, if you'll have a cup with me? I'll make it." Roz came into the kitchen once more.

"That'll work," Sarah said. "There are some cookies in the jar if you want to do elevenses a bit early."

"I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No, I'm just looking for an old recipe that's decided to disappear." Sarah took a small plate down from the cabinet and opened the cookie jar. Jason had made considerable inroads on the contents, but she counted half a dozen cookies left—enough to make a respectable offering. "That boy," she said under her breath, but without any real resentment. He was growing fast and his appetite had kept pace, so that he was eating them out of house and home. But he was healthy with it, his thin frame beginning to fill out and show the promise of the man he would become, tall and lean much like Gene and Greg, and for that she was glad. She began to take the cookies out of the jar and made a mental note to stir up another batch later that afternoon.

"Greg's already looking forward to your soda bread," Roz said as she filled the kettle. "He's grousing about the party at the fire hall, but I don't think he really minds that much. As long as he gets free beer he'd probably play all night long."

"Typical musician," Sarah said with a smile. "Provide enough alcohol and a comfortable place to sit and they'll play till they drop." She got out the canister of teabags. "You want full strength or decaf?"

"Decaf. I'm still recovering from Princeton." It was said with a smile, but Sarah sensed there was more truth than humor in Roz's statement. She knew better than to ask outright about it, though. Roz would tell her what the problem was, in time.

Soon enough both of them had steaming mugs of tea and the plate of cookies between them. Roz stirred milk into her mug and reached for a cookie. "It feels so strange to be home during the day."

"Yes," Sarah said. "I've been doin' this housewife thing for a couple of years now and it still seems weird."

"Do you ever—" Roz hesitated.

"Go on."

"Do you ever regret leaving Mayfield? You know, your practice there, and all of that?" Roz held the cookie but didn't taste it. "If I'm asking something I shouldn't—"

"No, it's all right." Sarah leaned back, mug in both hands. "There are times when I miss it. It was a structured workplace and I had a schedule, so I knew what to expect most days." She sipped her tea.

"Yeah," Roz said. She nibbled at the cookie, set it down. "I'm not sure if I made a mistake, quitting work for Kyle."

"Why do you say that?" Sarah kept her tone neutral, so Roz would read it as an inquiry and not a judgment.

"He took care of all the paperwork. Payroll, taxes, the overhead and some of the estimates." Roz stared into her mug. "It was nice, not having to deal with that kind of thing."

"Are you worried about taking on spreadsheets?"

Roz shrugged. "No, not really. It's just numbers. I'll get an accountant to do the payroll, but otherwise I can handle it."

"Spoken like a true math geek," Sarah said with a smile. Roz looked up at her and returned her smile.

"Are _you_ worried about it? Starting your own practice, I mean?"

"Yeah, some," Sarah said. "But I'll probably get a CPA too, to deal with the accounts for me." She paused. "What else is bothering you? You've been pretty quiet since you came back from New Jersey."

"Really?" Roz looked a little startled. "I didn't mean to be."

Sarah chuckled. "It's not that you're noisy usually, it's just I know you well enough to know when something's bugging you."

Roz relaxed a little. "He didn't want me to meet anyone," she said finally. "He tried to push me on it, make it a challenge, just to see what I'd do."

"Not unexpected," Sarah said gently. "Greg tests limits like he breathes. And he's afraid he'll lose you."

"Yeah, I know." Roz sipped her tea and took a bite of cookie, munched for a few moments. "Sometimes it's better to meet him head on, but other times, side-stepping works better. I knew if I confronted him, he'd turn it into a contest between me and Princeton-Plainsboro, if that makes any sense."

"It does. So what did you do?"

"I called Cuddy and we met on our own. It was . . . interesting." Roz cradled her mug in both hands and stared down at it. "I've been jealous of her a long time. I won't say that's gone completely, but it's . . . in perspective, sort of."

"You got to know her a little," Sarah said. Roz nodded.

"I can see why he was attracted to her. She's a strong woman, she's beautiful and she's good at handling things." Roz sighed a little. "Nice dresser too. I felt like a bag of donated clothes next to her."

"If you had pockets as deep as hers, you'd more than compete. Remember that she has to look good, it's part of her image as an administrator," Sarah pointed out. She hesitated. Well, why not? Now was as good a time as any. "You know, you could take a page from her book, so to speak. Consider changing up your work wardrobe a bit now that you're an independent contractor."

Roz gave her an inquiring look. "'Changing up'?"

"You've been wearing the same old same old for years now. Get a couple of good new jumpsuits, new boots. And a new coat." Sarah finished off a cookie. "Doesn't have to be Armani. Duluth Trading has good stuff."

"All that costs money," Roz pointed out. "I'm broke at the moment."

"But your hubby isn't," Sarah said with a smile. "Involve him in this, give him something to get his interest. I think he feels a little left out. This way he's a sort of silent partner."

"That's the _last_ thing he'll ever be," Roz groaned. "He'd hold this over my head and blackmail me every chance he gets."

"Well, yeah," Sarah said. "But it also gives him a chance to support you without having to jump a bunch of emotional hurdles."

"True." Roz polished off her cookie and reached for another one. "It's a good idea. I'll think about it, thanks."

The house was quiet after Roz left. Sarah put the mugs in the sink and took down her apron, tied it in place, wrestled her bandana over her hair and put on the CD player. She slipped in the Irish playlist Gene had made her, one she hadn't listened to yet. After a few moments the familiar strains of 'The Kid on the Mountain' filled the kitchen. Sarah nodded in approval. She went to the cupboard to get down the ingredients for sugar cookies. As she set them on the counter she tapped her fingers in time to the music. Years ago she'd learned to step-dance to this tune, about the time she'd started going to church every Sunday too . . . as with church, attendance at lessons had been non-negotiable. Without conscious thought her feet began to move in the patterns she still remembered so well. She'd loved dancing, even when learning the steps had proved difficult at first. She'd been good though, good enough to have her teacher urge her to consider further training.

She'd often wondered what her life would have been like if she'd made dancing her career. Would she have escaped the misery and addiction, the loneliness and struggle? Hard to tell. If she could have gone to another family, another place, perhaps . . . She remembered as a child of three or four, watching her mother, flushed with exertion and rare laughter in those few days before the dark times, step-dancing in the kitchen. Back then Mom still had the grace and lithe moves of a true dancer, with long legs that hadn't yet become swollen and varicosed; when she kicked they seemed to go on forever, and she floated when she jumped, as if she had the power to suspend gravity . . .

_I gave it up because it was my mother in me, and I hated it then though I loved her in spite of everything. Never even told Gene about it, not until years later. Now, things are different. Now it's mine to share with Mom, to honor that part of her no one could destroy._

"What the hell, why not," Sarah said aloud. She untied her apron, tossed it aside and gave in to the urge to dance. With a whoop she kicked off her slippers and undid her bandana, to let her curls fly. She'd always been proud of how she looked in her costume, with her pale skin and red-gold hair; at least for that little space of time it had been all right to be the owner of freckles and a mass of carroty ringlets, with no need to wear a wig like the other girls.

Laughing, she spun into the middle of the kitchen and kicked just to do it—not as high as she used to, granted, but it was still there, in her brain and blood and muscle memory, the best of her mother's legacy. The thump and drive of the music caught her then, whirled her away. She was careful to stretch first though, to loosen muscles and give them a chance to warm up. After that however the steps came back quickly, almost as if she'd been practicing on a regular basis. Almost; she knew the difference, and took care not to push herself too hard. Still, it was fun to step across the kitchen in time to the music and feel that familiar joy in the movement of her body, a joy free of guilt and shame now, light as a feather.

At the end of the set she was remembering a step when she glanced at the doorway. Jason stood there, watching her. His eyes were wide as saucers, mouth slightly open; he looked at her as if he'd never seen her before.

"_Whoa_," he said. Sarah laughed. She moved up to him in time with the music and reached out, took his hands and curtseyed, smiling and winded and sweaty, but happy right down to her toes.

"You're home early," she said, working to catch her breath.

"The boiler broke down and there was no heat at school so it was early dismissal. I didn't know you could-could do _that_." He was almost speechless, his dark eyes studying her as if she was someone he'd never met-and in a way, that was the truth.

"Come on, sit down," she said, and led him into the kitchen, to take one of the stools. She sat opposite him and kept her hold on his hands. He didn't pull away or tense up; he just waited, his gaze on her.

"On my side of the family, we're Irish," she said at last. Jason gave her a look from under lowered brows.

"Um, _duh_, Mom," he said, with considerable scorn. Sarah blinked. Then she laughed, a big laugh right from her belly. Jason fought a smile but after a moment or two he gave in. His hands tightened on hers a bit.

"Yeah, okay," Sarah said finally, chuckling. "Point taken, I apologize for insulting your intelligence. Anyway, we're Irish in every way that's good, bad and indifferent. My father was a Corbett and my mother was a Bailey, but her genes are the ones that took. I don't think Dad's ever had a chance. Well, except for his temper and mean streak, we all got that for sure." She paused, remembering. "Your uncles used to have red curly hair like mine. They still have the green eyes and fair skin at least. But before life took your grandmother down, she had all that, and she was a fine dancer too. And she passed some of her talent on to me." She gave his hands a little squeeze, let go and wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. "Wow, I need a cuppa. Dancing's thirsty work."

"How come I've never seen you dance before? You're really good." Jason smiled a little for the first time. "It's cool how you do that kick thing with your legs out straight. It's like you have anti-gravity units in your feet or something."

Sarah ducked her head and felt an absurd shyness at the compliment. "Thank you, sweetheart." She rubbed her hip. "I'll pay for this later, but it sure was fun while it lasted."

"Why don't you dance for the party on Saint Patrick's?" Jason got up and peeled off his coat, took it to the mudroom, then went to the stove and put the teakettle on. "Dad and the band could play for you." He extracted a teabag from the canister, found the mug in the sink, rinsed it out and plunked the bag into the wet mug. Sarah hid a smile as he dumped way too much sugar into the mug and set it to the stove to sit next to the kettle. It was the thought that counted, after all.

"It's been a long time," she said. Jason glanced at her.

"Why don't you want to do it? Is it because of your mom?"

She sobered at his perception. "Yeah. Part of me wants to do it," she said, determined to be honest with him. "Part of me doesn't. Dance reminds me of how things were before it got bad at home. Now . . . I want to reclaim it, but it's still hard."

Jason nodded. "That makes sense," he said, and went to the fridge for milk. Sarah felt a warning twinge in her thigh and rubbed it.

"Maybe you'd better bring the Tylenol too," she said ruefully, and got up to find the mixing bowl for the cookie dough. "If you don't mind, we'll talk about this later. I need to think about-about things. Okay?"

Jason studied her, then nodded. "Okay. I have homework. We can talk at dinner."

And so they did. "You could do it, Mom," Jason said, as they ate pot roast and vegetables. "If you rehearsed a little every day, by the time it's Saint Patrick's you could dance for us."

"One dance, maybe," Sarah said. She ate a bite of pot roast. "I'm really out of shape, Jay. If we get to the day and I say no, you have to promise not to pick on me about it. But I'll . . . I promise to work hard in return, and I won't wimp out just because I'm scared. Okay? Deal?"

Jason nodded. "That's fair. Deal." He shoveled in another enormous bite of pot roast, chewed twice, swallowed. "Can I tell Dad when he calls tonight?"

"Yes, all right," she said, smiling a little. "I get to talk to him after you, though."

"Okay." Jason speared another chunk of meat and added a piece of carrot as an afterthought. "What was your mom like?"

_Oh boy. Loaded question_. Aloud Sarah said, "When I was very small, she was funny and lively and liked to give big hugs. I thought she was . . ." She faltered to a stop. How to describe the mingled fear and love? "Bigger than life," she said finally. "I loved her, but she was a little scary too. I never quite knew how she'd react, even then. Sometimes she'd smother you with love. Other times you'd get a slap upside the head, and then she'd laugh like it was a joke and hug you and that was that, for her anyway."

"What happened? What changed things?"

It was a question she'd asked a thousand times over the years. "I don't know," she said softly. "No one wants to say why everything went so wrong. I think my parents were headed on a bad course from the start . . ." She sighed. "Guess the cause doesn't really matter. Whatever happened, it broke the family, and that's how we stay."

Jason nodded. "Is there a name for the kind of dancing you were doing?" he said. Sarah accepted the chance to change the subject.

"It's called step dancing. There are two kinds, hardshoe and softshoe. I learned a little of both but I'm better at softshoe. Hardshoe's a bit like tap, it's percussive. Softshoe emphasizes the movement of the feet." She gave him a smile. "Plus I like the music for softshoe better. Reels and slip jigs are more fun to dance to."

"What's a slip jig?" Jay finished his pot roast and surveyed the left-over vegetables. With reluctance he started on the carrots and onions.

"It's a tune done in 9/8 time. I've got some old step dance albums somewhere, we can listen to them after dinner." In a show of solidarity and encouragement, she took more vegetables. "I'll have to get a pair of ghillies—that's what you wear when you do softshoe. For now I could use my old ballet slippers, they have a flexible sole." She ate a carrot. "Let's look online later."

They were doing just that when Gene called. Sarah let Jason take the phone into the living room while she put in an order for a pair of Corr's practice ghillies and added rush delivery, which meant it would take four days to get to her instead of six, but good enough; she could practice in the ballet flats for the time being.

After ten minutes or so Jason returned and handed the phone to her, then disappeared. "Hey," Gene said, and Sarah closed her eyes at the sound of his voice, warm and deep and full of amusement. "Heard you got caught out dancin'. You haven't done that in a while." He paused. "Are you okay?"

"I'm all right. I put on the playlist you made me and it just sorta happened," she said. "It was fun, actually." She could almost feel her husband relax as he took in her lack of anxiety. "I suppose our boy filled you in on the plan."

"Yeah. I'll be home tomorrow. We can work up a slip jig over the next week, if you want to dance to a live band."

"That would be great, but I'm not sure . . . a lot depends on how practice goes. It's been a while," Sarah said. "I'd hate to have you work something up and not use it."

"Well, we'll play it anyway, how's that? We'll add it to the list and if you're up for showing off your talent, so much the better." Gene was smiling, she could tell. "You impressed Jason. Not easy to do with a fourteen-year old."

"I think I freaked him out."

"He'd better get used to it." Gene's chuckle made her close her eyes. "Home tomorrow."

"Can't wait to see you," she said. "Love you. Call me when you can."

"Will do. Love you. Good night."

She ended the call and went into the kitchen, checking to see how stiff and sore she was as she walked. Her legs were a bit achey and her hip twinged a little, but everything else seemed fine. As she came into the kitchen she found Jason raiding the cookie jar. He flashed her an innocent expression. Sarah raised her brows.

"They're nice and fresh," he said, and paused. A stricken look crossed over his features. "Not that the older ones are bad or anything, I like 'em a little stale. I mean—" He stared at the floor and fell silent, his cheeks red. Sarah took pity on him. She went to the dishrack and got two small plates, brought them over to the counter and put them by the cookie jar.

"Since when do we have stale cookies around here?" she said. "I take that as a high compliment, don't worry. Now, two for me, three for you and that's all you get until tomorrow, beautiful boy."

They sat side by side in companionable silence at the counter, munching their treat. When he was finished Jason took his plate, hesitated. "I like it that you don't scare me," he said, then leaned in and kissed Sarah's cheek. "Love you, Mom. Don't forget to come read," and he left her there. Sarah watched him go and waited until he'd left the kitchen before she wiped her eyes. As she got up to take her plate to the sink she spied the cookbook a few feet away. A paper stuck out from the pages at an odd angle. She set down the plate and took the book in hand, opened it to the paper. It was a page torn out of an old address book. In faded ink across the top was written the title 'Aunt Bridey's Guinness Stout Cake'. Sarah looked down at the recipe. She trailed her fingertips lightly over the frail paper, then tucked it into the book with one corner on view so she could find it again later. She set the book aside and left it for the morning. After some dance practice she'd make the cake. Undoubtedly she'd have to make it again to get it right, but that was to be expected.

"Love you, Mom," she said softly. She got to her feet, turned off the overhead light and headed off to read to her boy.

_'The Kid on the Mountain', 'An Phis Fhliuch', Planxty_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews are like old recipes-finding them is great fun! :)**_


	8. Chapter 8

**_(Chapter 9 will be the Saint Pat's celebration. -B)_**

_March 10th_

_7 p.m._

"I'd like to talk to you about something."

Greg takes a swallow of beer and stares hard at his wife. It's been a pleasant day, indoors at least. Outside the weather is cold and blustery, but with a few peeks of sunshine amid the snow squalls.

He and Roz spent the day doing nothing much—building a fire in the fireplace, watching some tv and cuddling together on the couch, and now sharing dinner. At no time had he sensed any anxiety or calculation in her—but she's a bit nervous now; she's wiping her hands in her apron, but he can see they're shaking a little.

"I'd like to move to Oahu and swill mai-tais on the lanai," he says, just to get her going. She gives him a level stare, but she's amused.

"Smartass." She hesitates, comes to sit next to him at the table. "It's not a big deal. Just an idea I'd like to run by you."

"You could have done that already," he points out. She nods.

"Yeah, you're right. So here it is." She hesitates and Greg holds his breath, waiting. "I'd like to buy some new work clothes but I'm broke right now. If you could pay for some stuff, I'll pay you back."

Work clothes? That's _all_? And she's nervous about asking him for such a minor thing? He sits there looking at her, unbelieving. After a moment she gives him a quizzical expression.

"What? Were you expecting me to ask for diamonds or a new car or something?"

"At least," he says, and sets his beer on the table to fold his arms. He scrutinizes her with care. "What's brought on this fit of fashion consciousness?"

"Sarah suggested it," Roz says. "We were talking about Cuddy, how I felt a little . . . last season, compared to her—"

"You didn't say 'last season'," he says harshly. "You don't have to edit the conversation to spare my feelings. She's admin, they wear nice clothes because it's part of the job. Stop comparing yourself to her."

"It wasn't like that," Roz says, then hesitates. "Well okay, at first it was."

"You're jealous of nothing."

She doesn't respond right away. Then she says very quietly, "I wouldn't just dismiss your feelings without asking you why you felt them in the first place."

He really doesn't like where this is going. "She's in my past, I can't erase that, much as I'd like to at times. You know we tried to get together but it just didn't happen. If you're saying you feel threatened by that, you're an idiot."

"I'm not an idiot, I'm someone who loves you and I'm jealous of any other woman who ever got close to you," Roz says, her voice rising a little. She stops. "After I met Doctor Cuddy though . . ." She looks down at her hands. "I'm not so jealous now."

"Well _that's_ a relief," he says, relying on sarcasm to hide his own response. "Because she's such a total dog."

"That's not what I—how did we even get on this subject?" she wants to know. "I'm asking if you'll help me out with some new boots and now we're talking about your last affair."

"Last affair," he says, drawing the words out, secretly amused. "So you really think of me as a scoundrel, a rake—"

"I think you like sex," Roz says. Her green eyes hold annoyance and reluctant amusement in equal measure. "Can we get back to the original—"

"I find it amusing that you're jealous of two girlfriends and a bunch of hookers," he says, enjoying himself. "It's just Cuddy who has your knickers in a twist because she's accessible."

Roz looks at him but says nothing. He gives her what he hopes is an innocent expression. She remains silent. They stay in a standoff for a good thirty seconds before he caves to temptation.

"Maybe I should invite her up for a week, show her around."

Roz's eyes blaze with green fire. "_Testa di cazzo_," she snaps, and flounces to her feet. "I ask a simple question and you turn it into—" She waves her arms in a rather uncharacteristic display of emotion—"this! You make it about me being jealous—maybe it is a little," she says, incurably honest to the end, that's his wife, "but it's mostly about you having to test, to push things just to see if they'll break, to see how far you can go." She puts her hands on her hips and glares at him. "So the question still stands, would you be willing to help me or not? When you figure it out, you come see me."

With that parting shot she unties her apron and takes it off, hangs it up and stalks out of the kitchen. Okay, now she's gone beyond annoyed into anger, and it's down to him.

After he gets a fresh beer he goes into the living room. She's sitting on the couch curled up at the end, staring into the fire. He's relieved to see she isn't crying, but she's definitely not happy. The look she sends him is a warning. He ignores it.

"You were doing just fine with all of this until you got stubborn," he says. "Now it's my fault."

"Yeah, this time it is your fault. You're trying to turn this into a fight when all I did was ask a simple question. I told you I'm still a little jealous of the time Doctor Cuddy got to spend with you, of you loving her," Roz says without looking at him. "I can't help it. I probably always will be jealous. I'm not trying to compete with her memory or anything stupid like that. Sarah suggested that I get new work clothes to give myself—" She hesitates. "Some confidence. And to ask you so you'd be a sort of . . . silent partner." She gives him a brief glance, then looks away. "If you don't want to do it, if you think it's a stupid idea, just say so."

He knows she's telling the truth, and actually he thinks it's an excellent idea—Sarah's insight is astute, and in this case she's right. Still, he says "If I say no you'll say no." He rests his hands over his crotch just so she gets it.

"So you're gonna keep pushing. Okay, fine. You want the whole truth?" She turns to face him. "I've been talking with Hazel about my—my self-esteem issues, the ones you've been bitching about since before we got married. So it seemed like a good idea to take on one of the big ones, and meet Doctor Cuddy. And it—it worked. Well at least it did until I brought this up, and god knows I wish I'd never said a single damn word to you about any of it."

Uh oh, _now_ there are tears. "I was just asking," he says—initial emergency backup application attempted. That earns him a scornful look, one he well deserves.

"Oh, bull_shit_ you were," she says, and wipes her eyes. "Great. Forget it. I'll save up on my own."

She goes to bed before he does. When Greg comes in, she's lying on her side with her back to him—not unexpected and pretty much deserved, but he's surprised by the anxiety the sight causes in him. _Maybe you pushed her too far this time,_ that little voice deep inside his head says. It sounds a lot like John House. _Maybe she's finally figured out you're a total asshole and you'll never change._

He ignores the voice-it's just old programming, he knows that now, or he thinks he does anyway. He gets undressed, pulls on a tee and sleep pants, sits on the edge of the bed and considers taking something for the anxiousness. Gene prescribed some Vistaril for him a while back, and he's kept the prescription current. It has the side effect of relaxing his muscles too, without making him groggy or lethargic, and it even relieves some of his hayfever symptoms, for which he is eternally grateful. But he hates taking meds for any reason, a laughable attitude given his years on Vicodin . . . and yet that abuse is what led to his current loathing. Before the blood clot destroyed his thigh he'd indulged in recreational drugs, yeah. But for daily use he'd never taken so much as a buffered aspirin, and that was how he liked it: by choice, not force.

In the end he doesn't take the Vistaril, he just gets into bed and turns out the light, and closes his eyes.

The next thing he knows Roz is saying "_Greg_. Wake up." Her voice is carefully controlled, quiet, neutral, and jammed full of worry. She doesn't touch him. Hellboy sits on alert at the end of her side of the bed, watching every move he makes.

" . . . what?" He feels muzzy and confused. His heart is racing and he's shaking. Some ragged memory of calling out into darkness, no one answering, his subsequent panic, subsides deep into his brain before he can grasp it.

"You had a bad dream," Roz says, still in that careful voice. That means it must have been a nightmare, one where she didn't dare to touch him. She stops and waits for him to wake up; she's gone through this before, though it doesn't happen much now. Slowly he uncurls himself from the fetal position he's in, runs a hand over his face, finds it's wet. There are tears still leaking from his eyes.

"Dammit," he mutters. A moment later she hands him a tissue. He is tempted to push it away, but takes it and wipes his face, then dumps it on the floor. Roz gets up, goes to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water. She sets it on the nightstand on his side and reclaims her spot next to him. It's her way of suggesting he take the Vistaril, but in typical fashion she leaves it up to him. So he gives in and takes the damn med. Better late than never.

"Say what you're thinking," he says finally. His voice is rough, too loud.

"What am I thinking?" There's a hint of challenge.

"I got what I deserve." His gut clenches when he says it. Silence falls. Then, when he knows she's about to agree with him, she sighs and reaches out to touch his face.

"_Buffone_," she says, and leans in. Her lips brush his, soft and warm.

"So . . . that means yes," he hazards a guess.

"It means you're an idiot." She slides a little closer, takes his hand in hers. He feels her shortened little finger, and for some weird reason it reassures him. "You don't deserve to have nightmares."

"You're still mad at me," he says a bit later, when they're spooned together under the covers.

"Yeah, a little. I'll get over it," Roz says. This time she's the one holding him, her slender body pressed against his, her arms folded around him in a protective gesture he can't help but find comforting. He wants to tell her he trusts her more than anyone he's known besides Sarah, but protestations along those lines at this point would be counterproductive. She needs deeds, not words. So he says

"Go to sleep," and brings her hand to his lips, kisses the palm, and waits until he feels her relax and her breath deepen before he closes his eyes, to doze off finally an hour before he has to get up.

Later that morning at work he takes the time to go to the Duluth Trading Post site, and puts a large chunk of money into an online gift certificate in his wife's name. He adds a note:

**'Do _not_ pay this back. Shut up and get to work.'**

He sends it to her personal addy and goes about his day.

When he comes home, it's to the delicious fragrance of pork loin roasting. She's made it the way he likes it, with a crust of sea salt, garlic, rosemary and olive oil. As he goes to the oven Roz appears in the kitchen doorway. She's wearing one of her old jumpsuits. The dark blue broadcloth is faded and discolored with set-in stains, though the garment is clean and neat. As she stands there, he realizes her hair is newly washed and dried in the cap-of-feathers style that shows off its glossy, sable beauty; she's wearing lipstick too, a rich shade of red he's never seen on her before, soft and inviting and sexy as hell. Before he can say anything, she comes up to him, hips swaying slightly, and stops about a foot away. Without a word she flicks the zipper tab with her finger. Her gaze is on his, her green eyes daring him to do what she suggests.

Of course he takes her dare, amused at her riff on his penchant for testing limits. He tugs on the zipper gently and lowers it to reveal her breasts, then her belly, her sex and the tops of her thighs, before he hits the end of the line. She shrugs free of the jumpsuit, picks it up, folds it twice, and sends it sailing to the trash can, doesn't even bother to see if it goes in, just tosses it aside. Then she reaches out, puts her arms around his neck, and brings him to her. She's shivering a little and her nipples are hard, but maybe that isn't just because the room is cold. When she kisses him, nothing else matters but the feel of her lips on his, the smell of her, floral with a pleasing sharp edge of lavender and citrus, her signature scent from the essential oil blend she likes, and her body warm and pliant against his. Dinner can wait; apologies and forgiveness are in order first, and for once he doesn't mind.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like kisses from House-you can never get too many! :)**_


	9. Chapter 9

**_(Hope your Saint Paddy's Day was a fine one. -B)_**

_March 17th_

_6 p.m._

Greg reaches the fire hall in plenty of time for rehearsal, despite the weather. Predictably, there's a nor'easter blowing in, bringing strong blustery winds and snow squalls mixed with sleet. Probably they should have canceled the gig but it's been such a bad winter for storms, everyone's well-used to driving in adverse conditions by now, so the party's on.

The hall is in the process of being set up when he walks in. Roz is already there with Sarah, putting the long tables in place. He knows there are all sorts of treats waiting in the kitchen: cold beer, yes, but also soda bread and spicy gingerbread with butter and honey, shortbread and little tarts made with chocolate cream filling, along with cookies, chips and hot tea and coffee, as well as fruit drinks for the children. This year they're taking donations for the food pantry, both money and groceries. Anything left over from tonight's hootenanny will also be given to families in need, who will enjoy the goodies; Greg happens to know Sarah secretly made extras to go with the leftovers, because he spent some time in her kitchen sampling the batches just this afternoon. She's too generous, but he can't complain when he's been the benefactor of her compassion so many times.

She sees him now and comes over, smiling. "Hey," she says, and gives him a gentle hug. She's wearing black slacks and a sweater in a pale green that matches the color of her eyes, with what appear to be glorified tie-up ballet slippers on her feet; a stretchy dark green band around her head makes her red curls spring up like a fountain. Greg tugs on one and gives her a slight smile.

"You look more like you'll be doing a striptease than a dance," he says.

"I don't think anyone really wants to see a blue woman shivering her way through a strip-down," she says wryly. "One dance is enough to pay my dues."

"I'll be the judge of that." He lets his hand move to her arm, gives her the lightest of squeezes before he heads off to the bandstand, where Singh and Jay are getting everything plugged in and ready to go.

"Evening, boss," Singh says, and adjusts a side drum. Jay nods at him. Greg gives them a nod in return and goes to the keyboard, checks the guitar. Everything looks good; they just need Gene to show up.

He arrives five minutes later, his watch cap and parka covered with snow. "It's comin' down like no tomorrow, but everyone in town is talking about being here." He takes his coat off and goes to hang it up. Sarah comes out of the kitchen to give him a kiss. She stands on her tiptoes and her curls bounce, so that they spark and glitter; she looks like a fresh spring morning. She and Gene stand together for a few moments, his hands on her hips as he speaks to her softly. The love between them is clear, warm and comfortable, the love of two people who have been together for some time and intend to keep things that way. At the end he kisses her, says something to make her laugh. She heads into the kitchen, but Greg sees her feet moving in what he takes to be dance patterns—she's warming up. He can't wait to see her dancing; he's got everything ready so that she'll never be able to live it down, this will be blackmail material for years to come.

Gene comes over to make sure everything's ready. He glances at Greg, sees the video recorder waiting atop the piano, and raises his brows. After a moment a slight smile tugs at one side of his mouth. He says nothing however, just goes about his business. Greg watches him, suddenly suspicious. It's not like the other man to pass up an opportunity to exchange pleasantries. Something's going on—time to find out what's been planned, once he gets a chance.

They do a sound check while people begin to enter the hall. As Greg's adjusting the gain on his amp, he sees Chase come in with the young blonde and her two rug rats. He's got a violin case in hand. When he sees Greg watching him he gives a little salute and a smirk. Oh yeah, something is definitely going on. Collusion, that's the word of the evening.

As soon as he can escape he heads to the kitchen, where he knows the head conspirators reside. To no great surprise, he finds McMurphy's there with Sarah and his wife. The three of them are enjoying themselves, if the comments and laughter ringing through the room are any measure. When he comes in they greet him with wide smiles, and his suspicion blossoms into full-blown paranoia. He goes to his wife and slides an arm around her waist. She accepts his kiss, her face lifted to his. When it's done he says against her lips, "My goodness me, you're all having fun."

"You won't get it out of me," she says with a soft chuckle. "Nice try, though."

"Well, if it isn't himself," Sarah says in a ludicrously wide brogue. "Back to the stage with you, piano player. Earn yer beers." She makes a shooing gesture, her eyes sparkling with amusement. McMurphy shoots him a glance, smiling. In defiance he steals a slice of gingerbread from a tray, gulps down half of it in one bite, grabs a beer and exits the kitchen. He's got another source he can lean on for information.

Chase is on the bandstand rosining his bow when Greg says "You never told me you could play." He finishes off the gingerbread and washes it down with some beer.

"You never asked." Chase wipes the area under the strings with a soft cloth.

"Lemme see." Greg holds out his hand. Chase looks at him.

"You can see it just fine from where you're standing."

"Distrust from a former acolyte . . . you're breaking my heart."

"Better your heart than my strings." Chase puts a shoulder rest on the back, adjusts it, tucks the violin under his chin and begins to tune. It's clear he knows what he's doing; his hands are sure and competent.

"Who made it?" Greg asks, looking over the instrument.

"It's a Stainer."

Top of the line then. That bespeaks years of serious classical training. "Your old man bought it for you."

"As a matter of fact, yes he did." The defensiveness in the reply tells him nearly everything he needs to know—Chase is still touchy about living a life of hollow privilege, and there's plenty of backstory about those lessons. "Sarah asked if I'd play for her dance." He adjusts the bow, not looking at Greg. "We should do a run-through."

"Oh, it'll be fine," Greg says, just to be a jerk. Chase squints at him.

"You want to mess with me, okay," he says quietly. "But not her. Sarah's helped me out when I needed someone. I don't want to let her down."

The speech is genuine; Greg gives him a few points of respect for it. "Once a seminarian," he says, and takes another swallow of beer, making it obvious. Chase rolls his eyes and goes off to confer with Gene. After a minute or two they tune a bit, then beckon him over.

'Kid on the Mountain', the tune chosen by Sarah, is a simple one, played in 9/8 time. Chase takes over the melody played on the uilleann pipes in the recording—hesitant at first, then stronger as he slips into the stream of the music. Singh adds a simple triple beat, doubled—a heartbeat sound. Gene picks the melody along with Chase, only an octave lower. Greg eases the chords in as support under the tune, and listens to the result. Chase is good—more than good, it's obvious he's got a flair for the instrument. He nods at Greg and they speed it up a bit. It's a good move—the tune settles in and sounds better. The next thing he knows, Sarah is at the kitchen door—hidden from the people coming in but visible to the band, and she's trying out some steps. Greg watches her, fascinated. She looks like she's almost en pointe at times, and when she tries out a kick, her legs go up and float down as if she has no weight at all. Here's another one who studied hard and has been hiding serious talent all this time . . . She goes on for a few measures, then gives them a big smile and a double thumbs up, and goes back into the kitchen. They play a little longer, then stop.

"Yeah, that's good," Gene says, and smiles at the scattered applause. "It'll be the last song in the set." He glances at the younger man. "We're shutting things down early tonight because of the weather, but we'll probably end up at the house. If you want to come over and play, you're welcome to do so."

"Thanks. I'll see Claire and the babies home first," Chase says.

The place is filling up fast. Greg isn't sure when he's seen so many shades of green. There are a fair number of 'Kiss Me, I'm Irish' tee shirts on people he knows are German and Dutch and god knows what else; if there's Irish in there, it's because someone had a moment with the chambermaid or the milkman many years back, but then again, such is the way of the world. He thinks of his biological father; it would be a good question to ask, the next time they talk.

The women are putting out trays of food and drink. Greg goes over to the keyboard, takes his seat, finishes off his beer and gives a good loud belch. "If you're done dicking around we can start," he says to Gene, who creases his lean pirate's features into a grin.

"Fine by me," he says. "You do the honors."

Greg stares back at him, startled. "Me?" He has to work hard to keep a faint squeak out of his voice.

"Why the hell not?" And that's that. Greg turns to the microphone, swallows once, twice. He taps it to make sure it's on and winces when feedback whines through the hall. Gene reaches out, fixes the angle, then nods at Greg.

"Uh," Greg says, rather at a loss. "We're gonna play now," and turns back to the piano amid scattered applause, a few cheers and friendly catcalls.

They start off with 'Goodbye Mrs. Durkin', with Jason playing the spoons. He does a respectable job of it, as does Gene with the lyrics. The cheerful music fills the hall and warms it against the miserable weather outside. A few people in the crowd actually sing along. More sing with the next song, 'The Black Velvet Band'. Several couples are waltzing along, beers in hand. The sight amuses Greg; he admires practicality in all its forms, for the most part.

The next song is 'The Orange and the Green', and Singh does the honors, which is downright hilarious.

_Oh my father was an Ulsterman, proud Protestant was he_

_me mother was a Catholic girl, from County Cork was she_

_they were married in two churches and lived happily enough_

_until the day that I was born and things got rather tough_

He manages a decent accent though, and the band whoops it up a la the Irish Rovers.

_One day me ma's relations came round to visit me_

_just as my father's kinfolk were all sittin' down to tea_

_we tried to smooth things over, but they all began to fight_

_and me bein' strictly neutral I bashed everyone in sight!_

_oh it is the biggest mixup that you have ever seen_

_me father he was orange and me mother she was green . . . _

They move on to a couple of songs they cribbed from an old Flogging Molly album, with Gene putting his Gretsch to the test. But the big surprise is Chase coming up to join them. At the sound of his violin the place erupts in applause and cheers. Chase acknowledges them with a dip of his head, his cheeks red. Greg has to admit he does justice to the songs—he's not flashy, but his style is unhesitating and bright. The old violin has a beautiful tone, sweet and resonant; the melody rings out and brings people onto the dance floor. There's a lot of inept but enthusiastic clogging going on, along with laughter and talk—the sure sign of people enjoying themselves.

After that they move right into the big hit for the Saw Doctors, "I Useta Lover'.

_I have fallen for another she can make her own way home _

_and even if she asked me now I'd let her go alone _

_I useta see her up the chapel when she went to Sunday mass _

_and when she'd go receive, I'd kneel down there _

_and watch her pass _

_the glory of her ass _

_I useta to love her, I useta love her once _

_a long, long time ago _

_I useta to love her, I useta love her once _

_a long long time ago _

_it's gone , all my lovin' is gone _

_it's gone , all my lovin' is gone_

It gets such a huge reaction they have to play it again, with Gene growling out the lyrics. They go straight from that one to 'Whiskey in the Jar', the Dubliners version, raw and potent as the liquor itself. They even slip in a fine version of 'Galway Girl', Jay thumping away on the simple bass line and Chase playing a nice counterpoint to the melody. Strictly speaking it's not an Irish tune, but Steve Earle was probably in Ireland when he wrote it; close enough for government work.

Now Sarah comes up to take Gene's guitar. She sits down, tunes it a bit, then begins to sing. The hall quiets as her clear, sweet alto rings out in the melody Greg has heard her sing many a time in the kitchen while she's cooking or baking bread.

_In Dublin's fair city_

_where the girls are so pretty_

_I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone . . . _

She sings the old song with a beauty and sadness that grips the heart. There's a grief there that's somehow comforting all the same.

_she died of a fever _

_and no one could save her_

_and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone_

_now her ghost wheels her barrow_

_through streets broad and narrow_

_singing 'cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh'_

At the end Jason comes up behind her and puts his hand on her shoulder as everyone claps and cheers. Sarah covers his hand with hers for a few moments. Then she gives him the guitar and stands up, goes to the mike.

"Thanks, y'all," she says with a smile. "You're too kind. Now I hope you'll bear with me for one more song. Many years ago, my grandmother made sure I went to church and attended step dance classes too. Well I won't preach at you tonight, but I will give you one dance, if you don't mind." She steps back and glances at Gene, then over at Greg, her sea-green eyes sparkling. Singh counts them off and starts the steady heartbeat thump as Chase eases into the melody. Sarah stands off to the side. Once she catches the beat she begins to dance. Greg is close enough to hear the breath blow out of her at the exertion, but she makes it look so easy. Her curls fly and her fair skin flushes as she moves to the music. As he watches her he thinks of what she must have looked like as a young girl, learning the steps. Maybe she came to class with a bruised cheek and belt marks on her back, and her teacher either ignored the signs of abuse or tried to give her a way to cope through the gladness of music and movement, a way to forget the pain for a little while at least.

And then the second surprise of the night reveals itself: McMurphy comes up onstage with Sarah and dances with her. She's not quite as assured and her steps are more restrained, but she keeps up. Sarah grins at her, whoops and claps her hands in delight as they stand side by side. Colleen laughs and shakes her head, rolls her eyes, but keeps dancing.

They bring down the house, of course.

After that it's a matter of playing one more song for an encore, then packing everything up and setting the hall to rights. It's as Greg is taking the keyboard out to stow on Barbarella's back seat that the final surprise of the evening is revealed. As he shuts the passenger side door, barely able to see it for the snow coming down, a car enters the parking lot. It's a BMW, sleek and elegant, splashed here and there with road salt. It pulls into the space next to his car, and someone emerges, resplendent in a black cashmere coat, as useless in this weather as a dead fish.

"You really do live to hell and gone, don't you," Foreman says.

Of course he follows Greg to the Goldmans house, though Greg is tempted to take off and make him rely on GPS alone. Instead he runs several theories through his mind while he navigates the slippery roads, but the one that keeps popping up as most likely is simple curiosity. Foreman's seen a change in him and wants to know what's going on. He also wants to take a look at the clinic, steal ideas of course. Greg has to smile at that. It'll be interesting to watch his former fellow's reaction to the low-tech style of the renovated house.

"This is gonna be interesting," he says. Roz glances at him. She doesn't reply, but her hand comes to rest on his thigh, right over the spot where the scar used to be.

"You're welcome to stay with us," Sarah says to Foreman when they arrive. She looks tired now, but her smile is genuine. "The musicians will be up for a while yet, but we won't be too noisy. Let me show you where your room is so you can get settled."

Foreman comes down again a short time later. He's still in his sweater and slacks—this is as relaxed as he'll get, probably for the rest of whatever time he'll be here; Greg doubts it'll be more than a day or two, his overnight duffel is small. Everyone is gathered by the fireplace, settled in for the traditional picking session after the party; only Singh and McMurphy are missing, since they're working graveyard at the clinic. They're playing 'Give the Fiddler a Dram', because it offers everyone a chance to show off a bit. Chase is playing; Foreman stands there watching him for a few moments, then shakes his head and goes into the kitchen. He emerges with a beer, takes a seat by the fire but outside the circle, and downs a swallow as they continue on. Sarah has her mandolin, and she picks a fine set of chords in her characteristic light touch, her foot tapping; there are echoes of her dance in the syncopation she uses. Gene follows her to play a solo, and they go through a full verse to finish out. The music thumps sweetly, accompanied by jokes and laughter when they end, the sound of musicians unwinding, enjoying themselves.

"Quite a trick, getting McMurphy up there to dance with you," Greg says when the song is done. "Conspiracies everywhere I look." Sarah grins at him and downs a slug of ginger beer.

"I owe her for that," she says simply. "The expression on your face was priceless."

It dawns on him then that she's not out to humiliate or mock him—he's being teased, and by a master of the art. Now and then he still has trouble remembering that Sarah shows her affection for him this way. As for Chase hiding his talent, that was probably to delay the inevitable due attention Greg will give it—a forlorn hope on Chase's part, but understandable.

It's getting late, and the spectre of Monday morning work looms, along with the bad weather. Chase opts to stay at the house, which leaves Jay headed back into the village, and Greg and Roz over to their place. As they go to the door and say goodnight, Greg catches Foreman headed quietly up the stairs. No doubt he's ready to rest up so he can poke his nose into every corner of Greg's business tomorrow . . .

"Don't worry about it," Sarah says softly, and gives him a hug. "I suppose it's useless to ask you to leave Chase alone."

He pulls back to give her a look. "How long have you known me?" he demands. Sarah chuckles.

"Yeah, you're right." She lets go. "See you tomorrow."

"You start your class this week," he says. She nods.

"Should be interesting." She doesn't sound convinced. He'll get more information out of her later on.

He and Roz walk home; he'll be over in the morning anyway, no use fouling the spark plug points driving the car such a short distance. Roz holds his hand the whole way.

They're in bed and he's almost asleep when he says, "How was it?"

Roz yawns. "It was fun," she says. "You guys are really good. With Rob in the band you sound even better."

"We do?"

"Yeah." She brings the covers up over them both a bit more. "They're looking for a live band to play at the bar now and then, you know. It's a paying gig—well, probably enough to cover the beer," she says, and laughs a little. "Think about it."

He falls asleep doing just that, a pleasant way to ease into the soft darkness.

_'Goodbye Mrs. Durkin', 'The Black Velvet Band,' 'The Orange and the Green', the Irish Rovers_

_'Devil's Dance Floor', 'The Wild Rover', Flogging Molly_

_'Whiskey in the Jar', the Dubliners_

_'Galway Girl', Steve Earle_

_'Molly Malone', traditional version_

_'Kid on the Mountain', Planxty_

_'Give the Fiddler A Dram', the Chieftains_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like Irish songs-always enjoyable! :)_**


	10. Chapter 10

**_(Apologies for the late post. Better late than never, which is a level up from a day late and a dollar short. Okay, I'll stop now. Hope you enjoy the extra chapter. -B)_**

_March 18th_

_8:30 a.m._

All in all, Eric had to admit it was a pretty sweet setup.

The Goldman house itself was amazing. He'd never seen anything quite like it—organic, homey, charming, he'd felt at ease almost immediately despite the unfamiliar surroundings. His room was small but warm and comfortable, with a fire in the little woodstove and a thick comforter on the bed; there was even a crystal water carafe and a stack of books on the nightstand. He'd fallen asleep easily.

Eric had ventured downstairs an hour earlier to find the coffee already on and Doctor Goldman—"Call me Sarah, please," she'd said with a smile—making breakfast for her adopted son, Jason. The boy had watched him with a wary gaze, his dark eyes shuttered; Eric was reminded strongly of House, possessed of the same cautious curiosity about everything and everyone.

"If you want to head over to the clinic, McMurphy will be there," Sarah said after the boy had headed off to school. She sat across from him at the dining room table with a mug of tea in hand. "I'd say don't bother waiting for Greg to ask you down, but you know him well enough."

Eric half-smiled. "Interesting assumption on your part," he said. Sarah sipped her tea.

"Which one? That you know him well, or that you're here to scope things out?" she said, but there was no sarcasm in her quiet voice. "It's a hell of a drive just to deliver news about the case he helped you with. You could've just called, of course. That pretty much leaves investigation."

He nodded. A simple deduction, but most people wouldn't bother to think things out even to that degree; he was beginning to understand why House liked her. She was honest without revealing everything she was thinking.

"You can follow me in if you like," she was saying. "I'm taking supplies before I go to work."

"You have a practice here?" Eric had a hard time believing she'd find enough patients in this small village to sustain an office.

"Not yet." She offered him a wry smile. "I'm required to take CE first."

"Ah." He went to the coffeemaker. "You don't sound too pleased."

"I'm . . . reconciled to the requirement," she said. "The class sounds interesting, anyway."

He was about to ask her what she'd chosen when a door banged shut in what looked like a back porch area. A moment later House came in. He paused when he saw Eric, but continued into the room.

"Hey," Sarah said. The change in her voice was marked; she sounded happy. "Want some breakfast or did your wife feed you sufficiently?"

"I could do a muffin or two," House said. He eyed Eric with the same kind of caution Sarah's son had shown earlier, but tinged with a familiar mockery. "Bet you slept like shit last night."

Eric fought a defiant first response. That was exactly what House wanted, so he wouldn't give it to him. "I slept okay, once I got used to the quiet," he said with a slight smile. Sarah chuckled.

"It's quiet _now_," she said, but didn't explain her rather enigmatic remark. "Okay, I'll warm up some muffins for you both."

Ten minutes later a basket of hot muffins sat on the table, along with real butter and what looked like homemade strawberry jam. House didn't bother with a plate; he grabbed a muffin, broke it in half and ate a chunk without ceremony. Sarah didn't even blink. Instead she said "How is it?"

"More blueberries," House said through a mouthful of food. He took a mug from the dishrack, filled it with coffee and dumped in some creamer, gave it a perfunctory stir, swallowed some and ate the other chunk of muffin, jaws working.

"You know, you're gonna kill yourself eatin' that way," Sarah said in resignation, but her eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. This was an old game between the two of them, Eric realized. And he also understood that they were more mother and son than analyst and patient. It was something of a shock. He'd never thought House would allow anyone that close, or even submit to such a lengthy analysis in the first place.

"Have a muffin," Sarah was saying. Eric glanced at her and saw that amusement directed at him now, but without malice.

The muffins were excellent despite House's criticism. Eric had two, as well as some eggs and hash browns. It was the biggest breakfast he'd eaten in years; a good thing he didn't have this temptation in front of him every morning or he'd never fit into his clothes.

"You'd probably work most of it off out back with the wood pile," Sarah replied when he said so aloud.

"Or going out on the town," House said, and gave him an exaggerated wink.

"I doubt any available women would be interested in me," Eric said dryly. "Pretty lily white up here."

"Don't be so sure," Sarah said, and got up to rinse out her mug. "Ten minutes and I'm on my way, okay?"

"I'll be in at my usual hour," House said. Eric chuckled.

"Same old same old," he said, and took a last swallow of coffee. "You don't have Cuddy to annoy here, so why not come in on time? You're just spiting yourself now."

House gave him a steady look. "Maybe I like coming in late," he said. Eric sat back, surprised. It was the truth, or as much of it as House cared to divulge.

"So pissing off Cuddy was just a little something extra?" he asked, and winced at the phrasing.

"Of course," House said, and reached for another muffin.

"It did get you out of clinic hours," Eric prompted.

"If you're expecting a tutorial on how to get away with murder, you're better off talking to Wilson." House took a chunk off the muffin and munched it. "The fact that you think I'm the master manipulator is an excellent example of the Great Self-Sacrificer's mad skillz."

"At least he comes in on time," Eric said. House nodded.

"Which just proves my point." He glanced at his watch. "Better get going." The mockery in his words stung, just as it always had.

They left him sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in hand, apparently entranced by the news report at the top of the hour on the NPR station. "He does like to jerk people's chains," Sarah said mildly. "When we get to the clinic I'll give you the directions to get back. For some reason GPS enjoys finding weird routes all over the county."

The drive was a short one, past dilapidated old farmhouses and snow-covered fields, with mountains nearly everywhere he looked. There was no comparison to the tree-lined, orderly streets of Princeton, but this place had a sort of peacefulness that he thought might be enjoyable, once you got used to it.

When they pulled into a modest parking lot next to an older frame house, Eric looked around for the clinic. But Sarah parked, got out and gestured him to the spot next to hers, then began walking toward the house. Eric parked the car and sat for a moment, conscious of several emotions running through him: confusion, comprehension, a sort of weird laughter bubbling up inside. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this . . . _It's not much more than a street clinic_, he thought. Still chuckling, he exited his car and followed Sarah into the building.

The interior was fully as charming as the Goldmans home; renovated in pleasing colors, comfortable chairs grouped by a tiled fireplace with a nice blaze warming the room. The receptionist wore dark blue scrubs, an older woman with an air of authority—"Colleen McMurphy," she said with a slight smile. "Good to meet you, Doctor Foreman."

"I suppose you've heard all kinds of things about me from House," he said wryly.

"More from Doctor Chase, actually," she said. "Want a quick tour of the facilities?"

He half-expected her to just turn in place and point things out, but she guided him to a set of exam rooms that were surprisingly well stocked, with one occupied by a patient, a thin, weary-looking young woman. There was even a basic lab, cramped but well planned, and a kitchen with a break area that looked inviting. He could hear music too—Motown, he noted with wry resignation. "That's in my honor, I suppose," he said. McMurphy chuckled.

"Possibly," she said. "There's a ddx going on right now. I'll see if Doctor House says it's all right for you to sit in."

He waited in the reception area, feeling distinctly out of place as he walked around the room, picking up details. One wall held a number of pictures. It was a bit of shock to see they were photos from former patients, thanking House and the team for their help. Of all the things he thought he'd find, this certainly wasn't on the list.

"Boss man says it's okay," McMurphy said. She glanced at the photos. "Happy customers."

_A woman of few words,_ Eric thought. He liked her for it; she was another good match to House. He suspected they harassed each other on a regular basis, something his former mentor would consider standard operating procedure and part of his daily mental workout.

The group around the table looked familiar, though he only knew two of the participants. House leaned back in his Eames chair, a sardonic smile creasing his lean features. Chase chewed a pen and gave him a nod. One of the doctors stood up and offered his hand. "Sandesh Singh," he said with a slight smile. "My colleague, Doctor Joy Chandler." He indicated the woman sitting next to him. She got to her feet and shook his hand too, her expression impassive.

"Gonna shmooze or work?" House wanted to know. Singh chuckled. He gestured at an empty chair and waited until Eric was seated before he resumed his own spot.

"Presence of angiokeratomas suggests Fabry disease," Chandler said. Her tone was no-nonsense; Eric was reminded strongly of Cameron in the early days, fighting hard to make her presence count. "We should do a biopsy—"

"The patient's twenty-five," Chase says. "If it was Fabry she'd have shown more symptoms earlier."

"Maybe something's delayed the onset," Singh said. "Could be another disease, could be an external factor. She's skinny as a rail."

"Any other symptoms reported?" Chase asked, and flipped a page in the file.

"Mild burning in the extremities," Chandler said. She didn't even bother to look. "Corneas are normal but she's got persistent back pain."

"Let's ask the visitor," House said. All of them looked at Eric with varying degrees of expectation. Chase removed the pen from his mouth and offered a grin that brought back many a memory.

"External factor," Eric said. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head that would mitigate the progression of Fabry."

"External it is then," House said cheerfully. "Go. Do."

"Her home is five hundred miles away," Chandler said with dogged patience.

"Better get moving then, time's a-wastin' and so's the patient, by the look of her." House looked at Chase and Singh. "Get started on the tests and have them ready when little Miss Roadtrip gets back."

Chandler got to her feet, clutching the file. "I'm keeping my receipts," she said, and stalked out of the conference room.

To Eric's mild surprise, he was invited into House's office. It was much the same as his digs in Princeton, with bits and pieces everywhere, clutter on every available surface. But the chairs at least were as good as the ones in the waiting room—Eric suspected McMurphy had a lot to do with that—and the music added to the lived-in atmosphere.

"Impressions," House said.

"You don't really care what I think." Eric settled back and tilted his head. "But I'll tell you anyway. You have a good place here. Your people are excellent. Facilities are decent, all things considered. And you're operating at maybe a tenth of your capacity."

"Here it comes," House said, more to himself than Eric. He folded his hands across his middle. "Do go on."

"Cuddy and I have a proposal—"

"I'm already shacked up. Got a ring and everything." Those ice-blue eyes glinted. "Proposals are out of the question."

Eric leaned forward. "We both know what you have here isn't anything close to what you deserve. We'd give you enough seed money to build a clinic worth your time. Bigger lab, more beds, more staff."

"And in exchange?"

"You link with PPTH. Name only. This would still be your clinic, run your way."

House didn't move. "Until you or She Who Must Be Obeyed decided otherwise."

"It wouldn't be . . . you'd retain sole authority," Eric said. "I have Cuddy's assurance on that."

"But you don't have the board's, or you would have touted it first." House twiddled his thumbs. "Think we're done here."

"That's your paranoia talking," Eric said, exasperated. "If you'd just—"

House lifted his right leg, then his left and propped his feet on the desk blotter, ankles crossed. He didn't use his hands to ease his bad thigh into place. Eric paused, momentarily diverted from his train of thought. "Your quad muscle," he said, astonished. "The clinical trial was successful?"

"Very." House moved his feet in time to the music.

"You're off the Vicodin?"

House turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Like I said, done here."

"Well, if you're more active and potentially drug-free it stands to reason that you'd want to take on—"

House waggled his feet. "If you leave now, you can get home at rush hour."

Eric stared at him. "You're not even gonna consider this." Cuddy had warned him this would happen, but he still couldn't help feeling a strong sense of disappointment. "You're that invested in gamesmanship that you'd pass on a way to make what you do even more effective."

"I'm invested in doing what I do best," House said. He looked down, straight at Eric. "One patient, two at the most. Discount bulk diagnoses give you crap results. Take a look at my stats, then yours. They tell the real story." He freed one hand to make a shooing motion. "Fly home, little worker bee. The queen's waiting for you."

"Workers are females." Eric got to his feet. "If you change your mind, give me a call."

"I don't think we have phones here yet." House's landline rang. "Oops." He glanced at the door. "McMurphy!" he bellowed. "Answer that newfangled contraption!"

"I'm picking up a batch of mail from the Pony Express rider, get it yourself," she yelled back. House eyed the phone and snatched up the receiver.

"I said no," he said, and raised his brows as a querulous voice on the other end rattled off a string of words. It sounded vaguely like Chandler. "Sorry, wrong number." He hung up. Eric shook his head.

"You never did have a problem cutting off your nose to spite your face." He picked up his coat. "Cuddy says you're welcome anytime. I can't say I'm thrilled, but I can live with it."

"Foreman." He turned. House stared at him for a few moments, then nodded. "You're doing fine without me. Let's keep it that way."

Sarah guided him on the return trip to her home. It was the work of a few minutes to gather up his odds and ends. When he came downstairs it was to find a canvas lunch sack packed with food and something to drink.

"I can see why he likes you," Eric said, and offered a smile. Sarah returned it and tilted her head a bit. Her gaze was steady, compassionate, and far too incisive. Eric fought to keep from fidgeting.

"Whatever it is you came here for, you can take some comfort in the fact that he didn't prank you from start to finish and humiliate you in front of his team," she said quietly. "You and I both know he's perfectly capable of it. He does respect you. He just likes to pair equal amounts of ridicule along with it." She reached out to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Foreman. You're always welcome here."

He was an hour out before he realized not only had he been summarily dismissed in the kindest of ways by House's foster mom, the Motown music House played had been backing tracks only—the main vocals were missing. The musicians who played those tracks were some of the finest of their time, but without the melody and words, their work was incomplete.

"Son of a bitch," Eric said softly, torn between laughter and anger. He pulled a cookie out of the sack, looked it over, shrugged and took a bite. Some hours from now he'd be back in Princeton, and all this would be another incident in his dealings with House. At least that was how he planned to view it. Anyone else's take was strictly their own business.

**_Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be welcome. Reviews are like Motown songs-more is always better! :)_**


	11. Chapter 11

**_(Thanks once more to everyone who has added my stories or me to their Favorites and/or Alerts lists. Thanks also to all my guest reviewers-I can't answer you in person, so I'll do it here. Your reviews mean a lot and are very welcome. I'm deeply honored-B)_**

_March 20th_

_10:50 a.m._

It was with some trepidation that Sarah entered the office, sat down at her desk and booted up the computer. She logged on and went to the Continuing Education website she'd selected from the board's list of acceptable choices. After much consideration she'd decided on a course discussing the latest findings on addictive behaviors for adolescents, adults and families; undoubtedly much of her practice would deal with addiction and resulting abusive behavior. It was a work-at-your-own-pace setup, with Skype classroom sessions every two weeks over three months, and accredited with several major universities and colleges. She just hoped her internet provider would keep transmission dropouts to a minimum; when stormy weather came in, they sometimes had trouble with service. She and Gene had discussed cable installation, but since that would mean actually paying for the cable to be brought out to the house, it was an extravagance they couldn't really justify, not now anyway. Maybe when she got her practice up and running . . . they could always talk with Greg and Roz about splitting the cost.

Sarah called her thoughts back to the task at hand. She was a bit surprised to find she was trembling a little. It had been a long time since she'd attended class; she wasn't quite sure what to expect from herself or the situation, but she'd do her best to adjust and adapt to the setup as best she could.

She'd just set up the webcam and the class was about to start when someone walked into the office—Greg.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at work," Sarah said, a bit surprised. Greg pulled the Eames chair from Gene's desk, set it next to hers, shrugged off his pea coat and sat down.

"Thought I'd sit in," he said cheerfully, and propped his feet on her blotter, dumping little chunks of half-melted dirty snow all over it. "Coffee and a couple of rolls would taste pretty good. It was a cold walk over here."

"If you want some, get 'em yourself. You know where the kitchen is." Sarah pushed his feet off her desk and wiped up the water with a tissue just as the link was activated and the instructor came on.

"Good morning," he said with a smile. "Let's do roll call."

"Let's not," Greg said loudly. Sarah gave a silent sigh.

"I'm sure you don't take this seriously, but I do," she said.

"Everything all right there, Doctor—" The instructor checked his notes. "Goldman?"

"Yes," Sarah said. "My apologies for disturbing the process, Doctor Kimura."

"Disturbances are okay," Kimura said with a smile. "I don't want this to be a typical classroom where I lecture and you take notes. As far as technology will allow, this is an interactive group. Discussion and debate is encouraged."

"Oh, he'll regret that," Greg said with barely repressed glee. Sarah reached out and gave his thigh a light pinch. "Ow! Hey!"

"Wimp," she said, and settled in with her notebook and syllabus print-out.

"Dinosaur," Greg said. "Pen and paper, so old school."

"And happy to be so. Now hush up."

Gradually she was drawn into the session. Kimura was a good lecturer; he didn't pontificate or blather as he laid out the course requirements and objectives. Sarah felt a familiar sense of interest push up beneath the anxiety. The course already offered some intriguing lines of research and thought. Her pen flew across the syllabus, making notes for follow-up and study.

"Working with patients addicted to drugs, alcohol or behaviors can be difficult but ultimately rewarding, though you'll need time and patience. And don't get discouraged if you're unable to achieve breakthroughs on the first, fifth or even the tenth try," Doctor Kimura was saying. "As you're all CE students, many of you with practices of your own, you probably know this quite well. What I'll emphasize in this course is finding new ways to use whatever you have in your toolbox—talk therapy, pharmapsychology, the experiences of fellow psychologists, and so on—to give you more possibilities for your patients to find growth and healing." He nodded at the camera. "So let's talk about-"

"Question," Greg said before anyone else could speak. Kimura peered at the webcam.

"Isn't this Doctor Goldman's Skype? You're—"

"Just a resident. Let's say you have someone in moderate to severe chronic pain," Greg said. "The people around her are convinced she's an addict because her use of a narcotic drug is unregulated." He sat back. "What do you think?"

"Well, I was actually about to ask for questions concerning the course," Kimura said wryly, "but let's consider your query. I need more information to give you an informed answer, however. What's the nature of the injury? Physical, emotional?"

"Physical, _duh_," Greg said with some scorn.

"No 'duh' about it," Kimura said. He smiled, but his expression was serious. "Pain is pain, whatever the origin." He paused. "Has this woman spoken with anyone about pain management, preferably as an adjunct to ongoing physical and talk therapy?"

"PM after the initial injury was unsuccessful. According to the specialist, the patient wasn't serious about getting better." There was a subtle bitterness in Greg's voice Sarah hadn't heard in quite a while. Her heart ached for him, for this old wound that hadn't healed yet. She wasn't sure it ever would, not completely.

"It sounds to me," Kimura said slowly, "as if lack of success lay with more with the specialist and not the patient. It often takes several tries to find the right person or team to administer healing, especially if the pain is chronic. That's not uncommon for pain sufferers." He looked concerned. "Has the patient since received successful treatment?"

"Not applicable," Greg said. "Totally hypothetical situation."

"I see. Excellent question, ah—resident." One corner of Kimura's mouth twitched upward. "Now, anyone else?"

Ten minutes later the class ended. "Except for you, Doctor Goldman," Kimura said. "If you'd stay online, please? I'd like to talk to you." Greg gave an evil little chuckle. Sarah rolled her eyes and kept the Skype link open.

"About that question," Kimura said after a few moments. "It didn't sound so hypothetical to me, Doctor House."

Greg turned his head to glare at Sarah, his amusement evaporated. Sarah shook her head. "I didn't say anything," she said. "You know I wouldn't do that." She had the satisfaction of seeing him relax a little, and some of the wrath left his gaze.

"Doctor Goldman said nothing. I recognized you from a conference we both attended some years ago. You made a . . . memorable impression on some of the attendees, myself included." Kimura smiled, but there was an edge of compassion in it. "It was before your disability. Your question today wasn't exactly hypothetical, I take it." There was no pity or even sympathy in his statement, just a quiet understanding.

"Well, aren't you just the smartest little Asian," Greg said softly. "That conference . . . you were the keynote speaker. 'New Perspectives on Pharmapsychology'."

"Not one of my better efforts," Kimura said wryly. "I was wrote everything down on a cocktail napkin in the airport bar on the way to Boston, and then left the napkin behind. I ended up giving the speech the next day, hung over. I've seen the vid. It was pretty bad." He chuckled.

"Don't feel too bad," Greg said. He sounded amused again. "You had a quite a few people wincing in sympathy."

"But not you, as I recall," Kimura said, his smile widening. "You gave me a very hard time. It was a welcome distraction, actually."

"Glad to be of service." Greg tilted his head a bit. "You've cut back considerably on your work load."

"I've found what makes me happy," Kimura said simply. "I hope you've done the same." He hesitated. "You look—better. I take it you found help."

Greg said nothing, just glanced at Sarah. She offered him a slight smile and he nodded. "He has," she said, and left it at that. Greg said nothing, but she felt him relax a little more, her discretion plainly easing his underlying anxiety.

"Glad to hear it," Kimura said. "If you plan to audit the class with Doctor Goldman you'll definitely liven things up, of that I have no doubt." He nodded. "See you in two weeks. If you have any questions please contact me any time."

"Don't hold your breath," Greg said, and reached out to end the session. Sarah smacked his hand away.

"My class, I make the decisions," she said, and turned back to the screen. "I'll be in touch, Doctor Kimura, thank you." Once the webcam was off she turned to face Greg. "So, are you plannin' to make this a regular occurrence?"

"You don't sound too enthusiastic." Greg watched her, his gaze bright.

"If you're worried I'm gonna talk about you or break doctor-patient confidentiality—" She stopped as comprehension dawned. He hadn't come here to harass her, he was making sure she was all right. The enormity of the gesture went straight to her heart. On impulse she put her hand on his arm, touched and warmed by his unspoken affection. They stayed that way for a few moments, the room quiet.

"Perfect opportunity to get out of work," he said at last. Sarah laughed.

"Thanks." She gave him a little squeeze and let go.

"You chose a full course. Could have done a one-day workshop or a seminar."

"Yeah, I could have. But it's been a while since I sat in a classroom and did some real learning. It's a little daunting." She sat up, clicked on the 'all programs' icon and went to her music files. "I could use a laugh."

Her choice was Cookie Monster singing 'Share It Maybe', complete with video. "Me look at you and me tell/you may have snickerdoo-del," she said, giggling. Greg groaned.

"Oh my god. Three year old," he said, his tone accusatory, but he was struggling not to smile. "Speaking of cookies . . ."

"I baked some last night," she said, and waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen. "There's coffee too."

He returned a few minutes later, cradling a large plate piled with cookies and two steaming mugs. Sarah cleared a spot and took the mug with the teabag string trailing from it. "Thanks," she said, and switched the video playlist to early Marvin Gaye. They listened to 'Stubborn Kind of Fellow' while they munched brown sugar cookies.

"So . . . was it addiction or dependence?" Greg said. Sarah glanced at him. He was looking out the window as he spoke, but she saw the tension in his body, the way he gripped the mug in his hand. This was old territory for them; she understood he needed reassurance on this point though, so she accepted his need to talk about it.

"There's a fine line between the two," she said. He snorted. "No, I'm not hedging my answer. It's not that cut and dried, not with you." She smiled a little. "Never with you."

"Explain." He slurped his coffee and took another cookie.

"Well . . . in my judgment, and Gene concurs by the way, any addictive tendencies on your part came about mainly because you weren't able to obtain reliable coverage. Anxiety and resulting behaviors are understandable, given that circumstance. Now you did have some opportunities to dial things down, I'm not sayin' you're completely clear on this—"

"Gabapentin didn't even touch the pain!" Greg snapped. "Nothing in the GABA family did!"

"You had a chance to use fentanyl," Sarah said quietly.

"And how's that any better than Vicodin?"

"With the right dosage you had a chance to bring your levels down without facing wholesale destruction of your stomach, intestines and liver, as you well know."

Greg was already shaking his head. "It's a C-2 narcotic. I'd have been stuck seeing some incompetent PM guy every month for a paper prescription and then put up with the morons in the pharmacy refusing to fill it because the scrip would likely have been written for a higher dose than the manufacturer recommends."

Sarah bit into a cookie. "Point taken," she said through a mouthful of crumbs. "Still, you'd have managed. But I think you felt like the Vicodin was your best, maybe your only real lifeline in that situation. Yes?"

Greg looked out the window again at snow falling in slow swirls past the glass. "Maybe," he said after a long silence, his voice so soft Sarah could barely hear him.

"I'm not blaming you," she said. "Mostly you did what you thought was best for yourself while facing a daily level of pain most people would find horrifying. And that's what makes your diagnosis a slippery one. You had a legitimate claim to powerful meds, but your needs weren't recognized. That created a climate for addictive behavior. And yet when you started using the TENS unit and Gene prescribed other meds for you, you gave up the Vicodin and you haven't gone back to it. To me, that indicates dependence was the stronger force."

He munched a cookie and said nothing in reply. Sarah put a gentle hand on his shoulder and rubbed in a slow circle, saying nothing. She was rewarded with the feel of him gradually settling in under her touch.

"So, you're gonna show up for all my Skype sessions?" she asked eventually, smiling.

"I'll keep you guessing." Greg turned his face to hers. "Can't get all predictable on you at this late stage." He got to his feet, snagged another cookie and stuffed it in. "Lunchtime," he announced. "Got anything for sandwiches?"

"Hell's bells, you're a total bottomless pit," Sarah said in affectionate exasperation. She stood too and picked up the empty plate. "Come on, let's go see what's in the fridge."

"Sarah." The use of her first name made her pause. "You'll do fine," Greg said. In his gaze was everything he would never say aloud. Then he went to the door and slipped out of the room. Sarah watched him go, conscious of a bittersweet sense of peace deep inside. Finally she followed him to the kitchen, glad of the comfortable old house surrounding her as snow fell and drifted outside.

_'Share It Maybe', Cookie Monster (check out the vid at YT, it's a riot-yes, this is my sense of humor totally, I admit it)_

_'Stubborn Kind of Fellow', Marvin Gaye_

**_Hey, you just read this/and this is crazy/but me love reviews/you give one maybe? :D _**


	12. Chapter 12

_March 27th_

_7:30 p.m._

The last of the day's light is gone, and Roz has drawn the curtains against the coming of night. The old house is warm, though; dinner was a roasted chicken and vegetables done in the oven, and they have a fire blazing in the living room fireplace now, the ambient heat boosting what the old furnace downstairs can manage. Greg stands in the kitchen doorway, surveying the room. Roz is curled up on the couch, looking over Mandy's math homework and making notes, with a glass of white wine at the ready on the coffee table; Hellboy keeps her company, reaching out occasionally to pat at the fluttering pages, which earns him a gentle scritch on top of his head. The tv is tuned to some rerun or other, one of those idiotic crime procedurals his wife likes; now and then she glances up at it to follow the action, but most of her attention is on the work in front of her.

Greg retreats into the kitchen and goes to the fridge to get a beer. He knows he would be welcome on the couch. In five minutes he'd be stretched out with his legs over Roz's lap, the channel switched to a game while she uses his shins for a makeshift desk and they chat back and forth. Well, that can come a little later in the evening. Right now he has something he needs to do.

"Gonna make a phone call," he says, though he knows he doesn't need to say anything. Roz looks up at him. She gives him a considering look, asking silently if everything's all right. Then she nods and looks down.

"Okay," she says. She knows he's been thinking of this call for a while now, because they talked about it earlier, while she was making dinner and he was hanging out in the kitchen.

So he goes into the office and pulls the door almost shut but not quite, sits at the desk, stares at the phone for a moment, then pulls it to him and gives in to his anxiety. He calls the clinic first, direct to his personal line. Someone picks up on the second ring.

"Hey boss," Singh says. "Nothing yet." He's talking about the latest round of tests. "I get the feeling there's something this young lady isn't telling us. I did another comprehensive physical exam and she's got some unusual erosion of her dental enamel. It's minimal, but it's there."

"Bulimic . . ." Greg considers it. It's definitely a significant piece of the puzzle. "Talk to her boyfriend or whatever he is, and her parents."

"Okay." Singh hesitates. There's a faint rustling of papers audible. "I get the feeling this isn't so much about calories in and out as it is about content."

"Check to see if she's refused any of the food she's been allowed to eat."

"I did. She's eating everything we're giving her, but I just can't shake the sense that she's manipulating us somehow," Singh says quietly.

"Have someone in the room with her around the clock," Greg says. "We'll give her forty-eight hours of constant attention. Eight hour shifts, no one leaves the room for any reason without someone to cover for them, and she isn't alone at all. That particularly includes bathroom visits—if she's purging, it's naturally the easiest place for her to do it. Make sure everyone's extra vigilant at shift changes. The relief watcher comes in five minutes early, so the patient isn't alone for even a moment."

"Got it. If anything shows up you'll be the second to know." Singh chuckles. "See you tomorrow."

After the call ends, Greg stares at the phone. He reaches for it, draws his hand back. Then he grabs the receiver and punches in the number. The call is answered on the third ring. He takes a deep breath.

"Hello—uh . . . Greg?" His biological father is clearly checking the caller ID. "Is that you?"

"No, it's the fucking Easter Bunny," he says, and hears the older man's chuckle.

"I hear that's what rabbits do best," Pierce says, and there's a smile in his voice. "How are you? How's that gorgeous wife of yours? It's been a few weeks since we talked."

There it is, that weird silent bond between them; Greg would never have dared to make such a comment to John House, the poster boy for humorlessness. "Still here," he says.

"Oh come on, don't be stingy!" Pierce pauses. "Roz, she's—she's doing okay? She's healed up physically and getting some help with—with what happened? And you too?"

The warm concern in his father's voice is genuine; it throws him off his stride sarcasm-wise. "We're fine," Greg says. "Even the damn cat's fine."

"Glad to hear it. Is there anything I can do? I mean, I was gonna ask . . ." Pierce hesitates. "I'd like to come down and—and visit. If you're okay with that."

Greg doesn't say anything. This is huge; he hadn't anticipated this request.

"Listen, I wouldn't presume to stay at the house," Pierce says hastily. "There has to be a place in town where I could get a room."

Greg looks out the window at the Goldman home across the lane, the back door illuminated by a single light; then he glances around his office, thinks of the extra bedroom upstairs. Before he can stop himself he says "Yeah, there's a place."

"Oh." It's plain Pierce is as surprised by Greg's answer as Greg is. "Well—okay then." He's silent a moment. "When would you . . . ?"

"Doesn't matter."

There's another silence, then a quiet chuckle. "You're more like your grandfather than you'll ever know. He was a man of few words at times too."

"Bet you drove him crazy," Greg dares to say, which earns him another laugh.

"Sometimes, yeah. He was pretty tolerant, all things considered. Especially after Mom died . . ." The humor fades, replaced by a grief that's profound and yet softened by time. "He was a good dad. You'd have liked him."

This leads right where Greg wants to go, so he seizes the chance. "Speaking of ancestors," he says, "if you know anything about origins, I'd be interested in hearing it."

"Origins, well." There's a soft creak of a chair being tipped back. "Dad always said Grandpa told him we got kicked out of England centuries ago for pure orneriness."

Greg smiles a little. "Not surprising."

"No kidding. Some cousin did a bunch of family tree work a while back, copied it off and sent it around to the various branches. I'll scan it for you. From what she says, the first person to make it over here was Experience Pierce. He landed in Salem and headed north. We've been in Maine ever since."

"All lobstermen." Greg sits back too. He'll admit it; he's fascinated. This is his history, veiled and unknown until now, and he can't help but want more. "What about your mother?"

"Your grandmother," Pierce says. It's not a rebuke, more a sort of realization. "God, I wish . . ." He sighs. "Well, anyway. Her maiden name was Fournier, but no one ever checked things out past her parents."

"Fournier . . . someone was a baker, or worked with ovens."

"That's right, yeah." Pierce sounds pleased. "Mom was more of a musician, though. Played the piano."

Greg feels the metaphorical hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Do tell."

"You get it from her. Dad and I, neither one of us could do more than play a comb and tissue paper and even that was a disaster, but Mom . . ." Pierce is smiling. "I remember her playing me to sleep in the evenings."

He can't help himself, he has to know. "What did she play?"

"Everything. Hymns, ballads, love songs, anything she thought might get me to settle down. I was an active kid, to say the least."

So they have that in common too. Greg thinks of nights lying in bed listening to Blythe play, a treat they both looked forward to when John was gone, how the music always eased him into relaxation and then sleep.

"Did you have trouble sleeping as a kid?" he asks.

"Yeah. Still do. It's easier now than it was years ago, though. Old age creeping up, I guess. I fall asleep in my soup," Pierce says. "You inherited the insomnia too, I'm guessing."

"Apparently." Greg sets aside the old memories, places them back in the lockbox where he keeps them safe. "So Grandma was French."

"French-Canadian. Most of the families around here have some relatives on the other side of the border," Pierce says. "Dad didn't talk about their early days very often, at least not to me. I think it hurt too much after she died."

"What was it?" Greg asks it with more respect than he'd show otherwise.

"Cancer." There's a world of pain in that one word, as there always is. "She'd had increasing discomfort and symptoms for some time but just pushed them away, didn't say anything. By the time they . . . it was too late to do anything, so they just closed her up and gave her six months. And then one day I came home from school and Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, and she—" Pierce falters to a stop. He doesn't need to say anything more.

They sit in silence for a while. Then Greg says, "Talk to Roz about coming down. She'll set it up."

"Yeah." Pierce sounds subdued, but his voice warms. "Yeah—okay."

Without another word Greg gets up and goes into the living room. Roz glances at him as he comes to stand beside her. He offers her the phone. She takes it and says "Dad?" and then smiles, her whole face lighting up. She pats the spot next to her as Hellboy jumps up on the back of the couch and stalks away, to drape himself over her shoulder. Greg hesitates, then goes to the kitchen to get a fresh beer. When he reaches the doorway he hears Roz talking. Her voice is light and full of laughter, the way it gets when he's teasing her, but there's a difference—there's less intensity, and affection rather than the love she reserves for him. He relaxes at that knowledge, and takes the spot she offered.

"You can stay with us," she's saying, and Greg's gut clenches, just as she reaches out to take his hand in hers. Her clasp is firm and warm; she squeezes his fingers, and his tension abates just a little. "No, we have an extra bedroom. Can you handle stairs? Okay. Well, it's yours any time you'd like to claim it." She listens, then chuckles. "The Heebster will probably claim you the first night. He'll enjoy the novelty."

Greg listens to her talk and laugh with his father, and a familiar thought comes to him: _this must be what normal families do. _There's that old childhood echo of bewilderment, resentment, sadness. He puts that away in the lockbox too, next to the happier memories of his mother playing him to sleep, and waits until Roz ends the call to say "You didn't ask if I wanted him to stay here."

Roz looks at him. Her gaze is steady, assessing, gentle. "Am I wrong?"

She knows him so well. Sometimes it scares him, but right now he takes comfort in it. "You should have asked," he says harshly. Her clasp doesn't falter.

"I already knew," she said. "I could tell by the tone of your voice."

"And you call yourself a rational woman," he mutters, but he brings her close. They kiss, slow and sweet. When the kiss ends she nuzzles his cheek.

"I am rational," she says. "I pay attention too." She brings her hand to his lips. "If you hadn't wanted him here you would have said so up front. Tell me I'm wrong," she says against his fingertips. He breaks free of her clasp gently, touches her face, looks into her eyes. There's nothing but trust there, and love—something he's begun to count on, though he never takes it for granted.

"You're not wrong," he says, and kisses her again.

A little later, as they're getting ready for bed, the phone rings. It's Chase. He sounds annoyed but pleased. "The patient's been vomiting every time she eats anything with animal products in it. She's a closet vegan. McMurphy caught her sneaking into the bathroom and got the truth out of her. Her family doesn't approve of what they call 'cult diets'." Chase snorts a half-angry laugh. "Except this one probably helped for once."

"All plants all the time," Greg says, amused. "You'll talk to the parents tomorrow about supplements and meds to deal with Fabry. Once you're done with that, grab a stack of files and look for the next two patients." He ends the call and resumes the task of taking off his jeans. They're puddled around his ankles when Roz says

"Wish I had a camera." She's standing in the doorway in her flannel nightie, her dark hair ruffled. Greg raises a brow.

"Blackmailer," he says. She smiles at him and his heart gives a funny little skip.

"No, not blackmail," she says. "You remember the last time we had phone sex?"

The room is getting warmer. "Maybe."

She laughs, a silky, knowing sound. "No maybe about it." She lowers her gaze for a moment, then lifts it back to his face. "Remember what we talked about?"

Oh yeah, he does. "Could be."

Roz moves from the doorway toward him, and damn if she doesn't make it look incredibly sexy despite all that fuzzy cotton with the little pink flowers. The front is unbuttoned to just below her breasts, and as she walks she flashes a length of slender leg. By the time she reaches him he's ready to ruin that nice flannel by peeling it off her without regard for—

"No," she whispers, and puts his fingers on the top button. "One at a time." At his sharp groan of frustration she laughs softly and rests her hands over his. "Go ahead, _amante_." When he starts to do as she instructs she claims his mouth, her tongue stroking his. He redoubles his efforts and gets the nightgown half-undone, then reaches up and slips it from her shoulders. She moves her hands and shakes off the sleeves. Now they stand in a pile of clothes. Roz leaves off kissing him long enough to say, "Move your feet."

"Move yours first," he fires back, unable to stop a smile. "Your nightgown's on top of my jeans. So are you."

"Mmmm . . ." She gives his bottom lip a little nip. "Guess we're stuck then."

"We wouldn't be if you'd move," he points out, smile growing.

"Oh, am I in the way?" Her wide eyes are all innocence, the mossy green depths sparkling with laughter. He catches her close, slides his hands to her face to hold it gently for a moment.

"Scheming little minx," he says. Then with care he lets his touch slide down, to rest on her hips. Roz tips her head back a bit, gives him a considering look. Slowly she moves her feet off his, then lifts his thighs up with the greatest care, giving him time to free himself. Once he's clear of the tangle of fabric she backs up and takes him down on the bed with her, and opens to him as her strong, angular features soften with desire.

"Come and get it," she says on a soft laugh. When he does, she lifts her legs and folds them around him, slim muscles flexing as she moves with him in a rhythm they both know so well. Her slender body is a joy he'd never believed would be his, and his alone.

After they climb under the covers, after they get settled beneath the big comforter, after the cat comes in and claims his spot at the end of the bed, Roz says "This is the best time of our lives."

That gives Greg pause. "You can't say that," he says finally. His words are hesitant; he doesn't want to make her upset, but he can't agree with her. "After everything that's happened . . ."

"After everything that's happened, we're here together," she says. "That's never happened to me before. Only Poppi and Nonna stayed. Everyone else left. But you . . ."

"I didn't stay with you," he has to say. She nods.

"That hurt. But you came back," she says. "It's all right, _amante_." Her fingers touch his face. "It's all right. Because you came back."

It isn't until she's just slipped into asleep that he says softly, "I'll always come back."

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like flannel nightgowns-warm and fuzzy! :)**_


	13. Chapter 13

**_(Apologies for posting a day late. RL intervened and I wasn't able to finish the chapter until today. I've already got the next chapter started however, so it should be posted on time, fingers crossed. -B)_**

_April 5th_

_2:15 p.m._

Jason hated April Fool's Day.

Over the years he'd mostly managed to escape getting pranked, simply because he made himself scarce on that stupid day—when he was living with his parents he'd just stayed out of the house until everyone was drunk or asleep, and no one at school had paid much attention to him unless it was to try to beat him up or get him in trouble.

He thought about it while he sat in his seat on the bus, his iPod cranked to drown out the usual noise around him. It wasn't the pranks that bothered him—some of them were pretty inventive, he had to admit. It was the aftermath. He detested feeling humiliated, stupid, clueless while people laughed at him.

"_Hey_." Mandy touched his arm. Jason took out an earbud and glowered at her. "Are you okay?"

"'mfine." He hunched his shoulders. Mandy rolled her eyes, but she didn't move her hand.

"You're still upset over April Fool's," she said. "It was four days ago."

"Tell that to the dumbasses we go to school with," Jason said.

"It's like the Fourth of July. People keep doing fireworks for a week after the holiday, just because it's fun," Mandy said, insightful as always. "Anyway, you don't have to just take whatever someone decides to do to you. You can fight back."

Jason looked out the window. The idea of retaliation didn't sit well with him; it had been his experience that any attempt at revenge always resulted in escalation, and he was on the receiving end of it. He just wanted it to stop and everyone go back to their normal idiotic selves.

"Think about it," Mandy said, "if you need some ideas or want help, just ask me." It was a good offer; she'd successfully pulled off an anonymous prank on a couple of girls, both of whom constantly harassed her about her size. While bullying wasn't as much of an issue as it had been during the Gus era, it still went on, just as Jason had known it would. At least now it was more manageable—you could choose to ignore it if you wanted to, and not get stomped for doing so.

He did consider Mandy's suggestion as he trudged home from the bus stop. The afternoon was a pleasant one for once; spring was struggling to get a foothold, with warm sunshine and a soft breeze working to melt the piles of snow everywhere, patches of greening grass showing between the ancient drifts. Icicles hung from the eaves of the house, water dripping from their points. Jason paused to take it all in, to feel the heat of the sun on his hair. It wouldn't be too much longer before he and Mom began work on their garden. He could hardly wait to see the orderly rows of green plants coming up through the mulch . . . On that pleasant mental image he opened the back door.

Mom was in the kitchen—cooking probably, since the CD player was cranking out music above the clatter of pans. She was singing along as usual, her alto voice clear and bright. Jason dumped his backpack, set down his instrument case and peeled off his coat, listening to the words.

_when she was just a kid her clothes were hand-me-down_

_they always laughed at her when she came into town_

He knew a little of her history, the terrible childhood she'd endured; he remembered her telling him about stealing clothes or shoes when her own wore out and weren't replaced, a situation he'd been all too familiar with himself in earlier days.

_called her rag doll little rag doll_

_such a pretty face should be dressed in lace_

She sang along without hesitation, though he knew she had to be thinking of her own experiences. The knowledge that she'd been cold, hungry, desperate struck deep in his heart and amplified his anxiety over the week's events. He stood there with coat in hand, listening to her sweet voice.

_I'd change her sad rags into glad rags if I could_

_my folks won't let me 'cause they say that she's no good_

_she's a rag doll such a rag doll_

_though I love her so, I can't let her know_

Jason dumped his coat on a hook and thumped up the steps into the kitchen. Mom was making meatballs for the spaghetti sauce cooking on the stove. It was Poppi Lou's recipe, Jason could tell. She turned around as he came in, and her expression brightened at the sight of him. "Hey love," she said, smiling. "How was school?" Jason came straight to her and folded his arms around her in a fierce hug. After a moment she reciprocated, though her embrace was more gentle.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly after a few moments. He shook his head and just held on.

Eventually they ended up at the breakfast counter; the kitchen was quiet now, the CD player turned off. Mom sat facing him, his hands in hers. "When you're ready, I'm listening," she said. Jason looked at her, the worry and love in her eyes, her expression, felt the steady, reassuring touch of her fingers clasping his. He searched for the words, but couldn't find any that fit the way he felt—a powerful tangle of emotions that both frightened and confused him.

"It's okay," Mom said. "Take a deep breath, let it out. Say whatever comes into your head."

"That song you were singing," Jason said finally. "Why do you like it?"

Mom tilted her head a bit. "You mean . . . because it's too close to home?" she said finally. He nodded. "Does it bother you? Remind you of bad times?"

"Not for me," he said with some impatience. "For you." He looked down at her hands, embarrassed. When Mom didn't say anything he lifted his gaze. She was watching him, a slight smile on her lips and tears in her eyes.

"That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me. Thank you," she said, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Jason felt his face heat up, but his anxiety eased a little. "It's all right, Jay. Those old memories aren't nearly as powerful as they used to be. When you get older, you find more . . . perspective, I guess." She squeezed his hands gently. "This is about more than the song though, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Jason sighed a little. "I hate April Fool's." He waited for the inevitable comment.

"It's tough to know how to deal with being pranked," Mom said at last. Jason almost smiled. Of course she'd know what was wrong, she always did. "Tough to feel stupid and helpless when people are laughing at you."

"So what do I do?" he blurted out. "If I prank them back, that just starts a war. But trying to ignore them won't work either."

"Who's been doing the practical jokes?" Mom asked. Jason fidgeted.

"Mostly kids at school," he said. "But I think . . . maybe Doctor House too."

"Ah." Mom smiled, though her gaze was steady and serious. "Your fellow students, no big deal. Doctor House, that's another matter. What do you think he did?"

"Changed the playlists on my iPod," he muttered. "How the hell—heck," he automatically corrected himself, "how did he do it? I keep it with me all the time!"

"Except when you're at the clinic and your backpack is in the break area unguarded," Mom said. Jason stared at her. She shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but that would be my guess." She hesitated. "He'll be waiting to see if you pay him back."

Jason's courage quailed at the thought. "No way."

"He won't expect you to jump right in at his level of expertise, but he will be waiting for some kind of response."

"_Why?_" Jason gripped Mom's fingers hard. She winced and he let go, but she recaptured his hands in hers.

"There's something you should know about Doctor House. His actions almost always have a purpose. Often there's more than one. He'll use that technique to teach you, make you think. The more you resist, the more he'll throw at you." She smiled a little. "It's called the Socratic method. Look it up."

Jason relaxed. 'Look it up' was a familiar ritual, one he found useful and calming. "Okay," he said. "So what do I do? I don't want to hurt anyone." He looked down at Mom's hands and saw the red pressure marks on her fingers from where he'd squeezed them too tightly. "I'm sorry," he said softly, ashamed of himself.

"Jason, it's all right. You just don't know your own strength at the moment." Mom paused. "I'm glad you don't want to hurt anyone, that's good. It also means you'll have to be much more inventive. It's easy to just destroy things."

"Where do I start? I don't know what to do," Jason said, his anxiety returning. Mom studied him, her gaze thoughtful.

"All right, I'll give you one hint. When you want to get someone's attention, go after the thing they love most."

"I'm not gonna prank Roz," Jason said with some indignation, even as his face got hot again.

"No, not people. Think about it. What does House love most besides his wife?" Mom gave his hands a little shake. "You're making this tougher than it is because you're worried about it. Relax, take a breath, use your mind."

"What do you think would work?" He knew it was a very long shot; Mom wouldn't go for actually naming something. He was right.

"You just got everything I can give," Mom said, but she chuckled when she said it. "All right, how about a second lunch? Maybe with a full belly you'll think better. Your stomach's growling like a washer full of rocks."

That startled him into a laugh. He accepted the change of subject, but considered calling Mandy a little later, and see what she could offer.

"Think twice before you involve anyone else," Mom said gently. "That makes them a retaliation target too."

He thought about it while he ate a ham sandwich, two apples and a banana, then snagged some cookies from the jar along with a big bottle of water, and went into the office. He munched while he worked on the last of his math extra credit, letting the logic of numbers and equations ease his worry.

It came to him while he was finishing off the last problem. Music—that was it. House had pranked him with music, why not return the favor? It felt right somehow.

He finished his homework and created a set of playlists, most of it terrible stuff no one could listen to without cringing—disco, accordion solos, barbershop quartets. He decided replacing the top five lists was good enough, no reason to go all out. He got them done just as Mom called him for dinner.

Jason lay in bed a long time that night after he and Mom read together. He snuggled under his layers of quilt and blankets, sorting out possible courses of action. He could hack the computer at the clinic, but if he made a mistake it could cause problems with the patient files, which broke the primary rule: no harm to living beings. It would have to be something more personal. House's iPod, maybe? But how to get to it? There was no way around this one, he'd have to enlist someone's help.

The next day was Saturday, so he hitched a ride in with Mom to the clinic. House was nowhere to be seen, of course; he rarely came in on the weekends, and when he did it was generally in the afternoon. Jason figured that gave him a chance to snoop in the office while everyone was off doing something else.

It was a good plan as far as it went, but he hadn't counted on so many people being around. He wouldn't be able to get into House's desk or do some digging without being caught. He'd have to find someone to help right from the start. Jason took a quick inventory of everyone in the clinic. The team was still looking over files for a patient, so McMurphy and Mrs. Faust had the weekend off. That left Mom, Chase and Chandler, since Singh was doing hours at the medical center. Mom was out of the running of course; Jason considered the two remaining candidates.

Rob was in the conference room sitting at the table with a stack of files and a cup of coffee. He gave Jason a quick smile. "Dude," he said equably. "What's up?"

There was no point in being coy; might as well get straight to it. "I need your help," Jason said, and took a seat next to Rob. The older man raised his brows but said nothing. "House—uh, he . . . he pranked me over April Fool's. I wanna pay him back—nobody gets hurt or anything," he hastened to add, "but it has to be something good."

Rob sat back and folded his arms. The smile was gone now, replaced by a serious expression. "I see," he said slowly. "And you want me to be your accomplice."

"Yeah," Jason said, pleased at Rob's quick comprehension. His enjoyment was short-lived, however.

"What's in it for me?" Rob said. Jason blinked. Rob shrugged. "House is gonna know I helped. Trust me on this, he _always_ knows. He's the one who invented game-playing, and he's a firm believer in settling scores, for the most part. So you have to make this worth my time. What do I get out of this?"

"Well . . . what do you want?" Jason asked. Rob considered the question.

"If I help you, I get a dozen brown sugar cookies, baked fresh every day, for a whole work week," he said. Jason felt a surge of relief. He hadn't been sure what to expect. "Baked by your mum," Rob added, and the relief evaporated.

"She's not involved in this," he said.

"Then I'm not either. Take it or leave it," Rob said, and turned back to his files.

Jason waited until he and Mom were alone in the kitchen a short while later. "I understand what you said to me earlier, but I can't prank House unless someone helps me. Rob said he'd do it," he said. Mom nodded.

"Okay."

"But only if I get you to bake cookies," he said. "One dozen brown sugar cookies every day for one work week."

"I see," Mom said in a neutral tone.

"Will you do it?" Jason was almost dancing with impatience, but he knew better than to show it.

"What do I get out of it? Greg will know I helped you," Mom said, unconsciously echoing Rob's earlier objection.

"Um . . . I'll wash and dry dishes for the week you bake cookies," Jason said. It was a good counter-offer; he knew Mom didn't really like doing dishes.

"A month," Mom said. Jason's eyes widened.

"How's that fair?" he demanded.

"Oh, this isn't about fairness," Mom said. Her sea-green eyes glinted. "This is about learning how to bargain."

Jason hesitated. "Two weeks," he said. Mom sniffed.

"Not good enough. Three."

"Two, or forget it."

"Three, or you'll have to find someone else besides Rob to help you out. I don't think Chandler is a good second choice."

Jason gave her a hard stare. "Two, and I'll wash up the cookie sheet."

Mom thought about it. "Okay," she said, spit in her hand and held it out. Jason spit in his and they shook on it.

Soon enough he was in the office with Rob standing guard. "Check the right top drawer," Rob said. "He keeps most of his personal stuff in there."

Jason rummaged around. He found paydirt three layers down—or he thought he had, until he looked at the iPod. "This is his old one," he said, disappointed. It was too much to expect he'd get exactly what he wanted on the first try. "It's a spare in case his new one doesn't work."

"Well . . ." Rob glanced at him. "You go ahead and take it, bring it back on Monday. I'll make sure the new one loses its battery somehow after that."

"What do you want in return?" Jason said warily. Rob gave him a wicked smile.

"Since you're a newbie, I'll give it to you gratis this time."

"What's that mean?"

"No strings attached. But only this once." Rob turned around. "Better get busy. House could show up at any minute."

Jason quickly stuffed the iPod in his pocket, then scurried out of the office just as Chandler emerged from the kitchen. She gave both him and Rob a suspicious look but said nothing, just continued on her way.

He spent most of Sunday creating new playlists and switching five of the old ones out, snickering over his choices. Mom stopped in once to get a book and shook her head but said nothing, just left him to his work.

Rob came over for dinner that evening and took the iPod back. "I'll slip it into his desk when I go in tomorrow." He gave Jason a steady look. "You know House won't let this go unnoticed."

"He pranked me first," Jason said.

"Doesn't matter. Anyway, it's mostly your funeral." Rob took a piece of cornbread from the basket and slathered butter on top. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Jason thought of that on Monday morning as he headed off to school. Mandy got the story out of him of course; he didn't really try too hard to keep it from her. She shook her head at him.

"You're just gonna get in trouble," was all she said.

The day crawled by. He made it through classes somehow, though for once he couldn't concentrate on anything and blew an easy extra credit problem on a pop quiz, something he hadn't done in quite some time. None of it mattered; he wanted to get home and find out what happened.

As it turned out, the news came to him. When Jason emerged from the school it was to find Mom and Minnie Lou waiting at the curb. He climbed into the cab. "What's wrong?" he said, sure something had happened to Dad.

"House wants a meeting," Mom said. She glanced at him, her expression impassive. "Shut the door, time's a-wastin'."

The ride to the clinic was conducted in silence. Jason stared out the window and tried not to sweat. He was scared, but a little part of him was eager to see what would happen next.

House was waiting in his office. There was music playing, a song Dad liked a lot—'Rockin' the Casbah'. House gestured for him to come in. Jason edged into the room, clutching his backpack.

"A half-assed prank is no prank at all," House said loudly above the music. "Either you do it right or don't bother." He eyed Jason. "You didn't steal my current iPod. You didn't ask anyone about the kind of music I hate. You didn't change all the playlists. You used other people to help you, and now you have to pay them back even though your prank backfired. Epic fail on all levels."

"I did the best I could," Jason said, feeling defensive.

"No you didn't," House shot back sharply. "Don't make excuses." He looked disgusted. "So I'm gonna have to start from the ground up. Great." He sighed. "First assignment: prank someone and do it right. You have one hour to come up with a target and a plan of action and get it done."

Jason fidgeted. "My parents won't like it," he said finally, and knew that line of logic would never pass muster; Mom and Dad were pranksters themselves. House smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.

"You should have thought of that before you started this war. They don't like it, you handle it. Not my problem," he said. "One plan, one hour, no help. Use the conference room." He turned away, an obvious dismissal. Jason swallowed.

"What if I say no?" he said. "What happens then?"

"You find someone else to get you through medical school," House said without turning around. "Either way you choose, there's no takesy-backsys."

After a moment Jason trudged into the conference room and shut the door behind him. He dumped his backpack on the floor, shrugged out of his coat and stared at the scuffed wood of the table top. What the hell was he going to do now? He'd screwed things up big time. Dejected, he put his chin on his fists and closed his eyes.

_What would House do in this situation?_ a small voice inside him whispered. Jason snorted at the corniness of the question, but the voice persisted. _Come on, he gets results. It couldn't hurt to use his method._

"But that's what he wants me to do," he said under his breath. The voice chuckled.

_Of course he does. You might as well start learning now, you'll have to do it sooner or later._

One hour later Jason walked into House's office. "Okay, done," he said.

House opened one eye. He sat with legs propped on the desk, ankles crossed and iPod blaring; to Jason's chagrin, it was the accordion music he'd uploaded. "Next time, don't choose Flaco Jimenez. I happen to like his work." He folded his hands across his middle. "Rule one: don't announce what you're planning to the whole damn world, and most especially not to me. Just bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia."

"What?"

House exhaled long and slow. "Evidence, junior. Get the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West. We'll go from there. And by the way, you're expected to know pop culture references. I'm not explaining them to you after this."

Jason stared at House. "How'd you know I pranked Chandler?"

"She came into the conference room and talked to you. You were freaking out with no ideas, so she was an easy target." House shrugged. "Pretty simple." He opened the other eye. "Tell."

Jason told Mom about it later that evening, after they'd read a chapter of the current book together. "I just swapped out sour cream for her yogurt," he said.

"Pretty harmless," Mom said. "So you've decided to start working with House." She gently ruffled his hair. "Big decision."

"I think he made it for me," Jason said.

"He might have nudged you, but you chose for yourself." Mom stuck the bookmark in the pages and set the book on the stand, within easy reach. "Don't stay up too late reading ahead, morning comes early." She kissed his cheek. "I'm very proud of you, you know."

"Why? I messed up," Jason said.

"But you didn't let it stop you." Mom smiled at him. "That's the important part."

He found her quiet words oddly comforting, and took them with him into sleep.

_'Rag Doll', The Four Seasons_

_'Rockin' the Casbah', The Clash_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be great. Reviews are like brown sugar cookies-more's always better! :)**_


	14. Chapter 14

**_(Many thanks to everyone who has favorited my stories and/or me as author. As always, I'm very deeply honored. I have the best readers in any fandom. -B)_**

_April 12th_

_6 p.m._

They've been waiting for an hour or so for Hawkeye's flight to arrive. The gate isn't that busy; a few soldiers headed for Fort Hood, some commuters, pretty much like all the gates here; it's Syracuse, not LaGuardia or JFK or even Newark. Greg keeps his attention on the game he's attempting to play, while Roz is the one who scans the board and gets both of them coffee and chats with the attendant.

Thus, she's the one who sees him first. She puts a hand on Greg's arm. "He's here," she says quietly, and then she goes to meet him. Greg watches them out of the corner of his eye. Hawkeye is taller, skinnier if that's possible, with similar lean features and thinning white hair. He's wearing comfortable clothes under a good coat and carries a single duffle bag. When he sees Roz his face lights up with what appears to be genuine delight; so the two of them have been trading pictures online, undoubtedly. He drops the duffle and holds out his arms. Roz goes right to him and they embrace as if they've known each other all their lives. Greg is aware of a strange sensation deep inside, a tangled knot of anger, pain and reluctant wistfulness he can't bring himself to acknowledge.

After a minute or two they head his way, arms around each other, talking away. Greg keeps working on the fifth level of his game, unwilling to give it up. It isn't until they're standing in front of him that he lifts his gaze for a moment. He looks into Hawkeye's face, into eyes as blue as his own, full of understanding, uncertainty and even a little amusement.

"Doctor House," Hawkeye says. "Good to meet you at last." His voice is resonant, a New England accent permeating the words. He doesn't hold out a hand to shake; Roz must have warned him. Greg looks down at his game.

"Doctor Pierce," he says, and falls silent.

"I don't know about you two, but I could eat," Roz says. "Why don't we go to Dino BBQ?"

Greg perks up just a bit. Hawkeye gives her a quizzical look. "Do they serve barbecue alphabet soup?"

Roz chuckles. "Stop at barbecue," she says. "Dinosaur's the best around here." She looks at Greg. "Okay?"

He nods and puts the game away. "I'll drive."

Roz and Hawkeye talk during the ride. "Not a bad flight," Hawkeye says. "Thought for sure we'd have rotten weather on the way down. I saw northern lights last night."

So dear old Dad couldn't sleep either. Greg feels a second or two of distant sympathy; he'd been up on and off all night long, tense with anxiety until Roz had persuaded him to take some Vistaril and then curl up with her in bed. It had given him a few hours of rest, at any rate.

"It won't take too long to get home," Roz is saying. She sounds confident and relaxed. Her ease with the situation is helping him stay calmer than he would otherwise; Greg wonders if that's the case for the older man too. He says nothing however, just concentrates on his driving.

The restaurant is crowded as usual, but they get a table fairly quickly. It hasn't been cleared yet—there are leftover ribs and cornbread sitting on dirty plates. Greg observes Hawkeye's reaction. He takes a seat, ignores the mess and looks around, obviously intrigued. So, not a man to fuss over less-than-ideal conditions. No doubt his experience in the military has something to do with that.

"It's got atmosphere," Hawkeye says drily, but a smile glimmers in his eyes when he says it. "Reminds me of a place I used to go to in Chicago. Adam's Ribs, down on Dearborn Street. Probably a parking garage now."

Anything Greg might have said is interrupted by the arrival of their server, a young woman with multiple tatts, piercings and purple hair, pretty much the required look in what's still a biker bar to some extent. She's quick, efficient and funny; she cracks jokes with them as she clears the table, gives it a good wipe-down, offers menus and takes their drinks order. Roz is driving them home so she opts for iced tea, while Greg gets a Yuengling and Hawkeye tries the Ape Hanger Ale. They decide on the Swag sampler for four people—spicy shrimp boil, chicken wings, deviled eggs and fried green tomatoes—along with the family size main meal of chicken, ribs, brisket and sides. Anything they don't eat they can take home of course, in fact they'll order a bunch of goodies to go; Dino barbecue is a common sight in their fridge and the clinic's too, since anyone on airport duty usually stops to pick up goodies while in town.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, why the Adirondacks?" Hawkeye says when the server disappears into the depths of the kitchen. "It's a little on the remote side for the work you're doing."

"I thought I'd combine renting cabins with diagnoses," Greg says. Hawkeye sits back and gives him a serious, considering look, though there's amusement still lurking in those blue eyes.

"You've got your great-grandfather's entrepreneurial spirit and my smart mouth," he says. "Dad would be alternately thrilled and appalled." And he means it, he's not kidding. There's actual pride in his voice along with the teasing. Greg blinks but says nothing, because for once he doesn't know what to say.

Thankfully, the beer and iced tea show up at that point along with the appetizers. A few minutes of happy chaos ensues, with everyone taking what looks good and then falling to. Hawkeye tries the chicken wings first. He munches, licks his fingers, downs a good swallow of beer.

"Hot damn," he says, and belches. Roz rolls her eyes but smiles all the same.

The main courses show up a short time later, and everything is so good none of them can resist stuffing themselves. Conversation is intermittent, and mostly between Hawkeye and Roz, which suits Greg just fine.

"How's it going now that you're starting your own business?" Hawkeye asks her.

"Not bad," Roz says, and licks her fingers. Greg hides a smile at this childish gesture. One of the things he enjoys about Roz is her ability to be a serious adult and five years old simultaneously. "Doing the paperwork sucks, but Sarah helped me find a good CPA so I don't have to worry about payroll deductions." She hesitates. "I'm—I do some tutoring, too. On the side."

"Really?" Hawkeye takes her up on it, his interest clearly real. "What do you teach?"

"I'm not a teacher," Roz says, and blushes. "Just a tutor. Math, some algebra and calculus."

Hawkeye's eyes widen. "No one is just a tutor," he says in admiration. He glances at Greg. "That fact isn't lost on you, no doubt."

"Nope," Greg says, and stuffs in a mouthful of brisket. He's actually quite proud of Roz, but he's still in the process of observing this man, gauging strengths, weaknesses, prejudices, how and where to push, to test limits. He's gathering information, not giving it out.

"Succinct," Hawkeye says. There's sardonic, knowing amusement in that one word. It makes Greg aware his father understands what he's doing and moreover, doesn't object.

_Interesting_, he thinks, and files it away for further study later.

Eventually they finish up, put in a huge order to take home along with some of the local beer, and head on their way. Hawkeye gets the front seat with Roz. Greg stretches out on the back seat, his head pillowed on the older man's duffle. It smells faintly of Old Spice, something he finds oddly comforting, which is just plain weird and a little unsettling, but there it is. He listens to his wife talking with his father, the comfortable, desultory kind of conversation people have when they're okay with each other, and thinks he'll probably never get to that stage with this man. The fact that he's even contemplating it is ludicrous. And yet . . . he can't help but admit that way down deep inside, there's a tiny little part of him that's still in shock at realizing John House is not his dad. After all these years, that hasn't gone away. That same part of him longs for a relationship with his real father—hell, with _any_ father, but doesn't know how to go about establishing one. It's the same problem he has with everyone else, just magnified to the intensity of a million collapsing suns.

Slowly he drifts off, lulled by the motion of the car and a full belly.

"_Amante_." Roz says it softly. As she speaks he becomes aware they've stopped. "Do you need the bathroom?"

Greg pulls himself upright. "I didn't until you said it," he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance behind his words. Roz leans in and kisses him, a soft brush of her lips over his, the gesture familiar, comforting. Then she stands back so he can get out, and walks with him to the rest area.

They're about an hour from home now, so Greg doesn't bother to go back to sleep once they're on their way again. Instead he sits in the back, listening. It therefore comes as a surprise when Hawkeye says quietly, "Look, I don't expect us to be instant family. It's okay for you to say whatever you want to me. I won't plotz if you're less than kind." There's truth in his words, no hidden agenda, no attempt at blackmail or emotional angst. It's a genuine offering of respect. So of course Greg has to poke at it.

"No reason to be less than kind," he says. "You didn't know about me until Mom decided to tell you. Not your fault I was dad-less for most of my life."

"Blythe was married," Hawkeye points out, but without rancor.

"Her husband was not a father," Greg says, more sharply than he'd intended. "Literally. And in more ways than one."

"Was he abusive?" The question is put quietly, but there's anger and sadness behind it.

"Fortunately for both Mom and me, he was mostly absent." Greg looks out the window at the lights of farmhouses and outbuildings glittering in the dark. "When he wasn't . . . let's just say he made an impression in every way possible."

"_Shit_." Hawkeye sighs softly. "If I'd known . . . hell, I don't know what I'd have done. Maybe talked to Blythe about having you come to Maine."

"Easy to say now," Greg says, even as he's thinking about how utterly different his life would have been with a medical doctor for a dad, instead of a humorless jarhead with a ramrod up his ass.

"Yeah, it is," Hawkeye says. "I won't say I'm sorry because that's meaningless, but . . . I'd have tried to make a difference for you somehow."

Greg doesn't answer him. There's nothing he can say that won't start a war. While he's not averse to doing just that, he knows Roz would be terribly hurt by such an action. Anyway, it would destroy any chance he might have of learning more about this man. So he doesn't indulge his first instinct.

"Blythe married career military," Hawkeye's saying. "Who knew she was such a glutton for punishment? I only met one guy who was regular army who wasn't a total dick. Mostly they're humorless jerks."

Greg is startled into a reluctant, fleeting smile. "True," he says finally.

"What was Korea like?" Roz says. She's attempting to steer them away from a potentially explosive subject, but she's also interested in Hawkeye's history.

"Madness and boredom, interspersed with moments of sheer terror." Hawkeye sighs softly. "I worked with good people, got two best friends out of it, and none of us should ever have been there in the first place." He glances at Roz, then away. "Korea was beautiful, when it wasn't being bombed to hell and back. The people . . ." He trails off, then goes on. "The people were pretty decent, all things considered."

So, there was a woman. Maybe more than one. Greg files the knowledge away for later use. "Meatball surgery," he says aloud. "Interesting term."

"A very apt term." Hawkeye is silent for a few moments. "It wasn't uncommon for us to work forty-eight or even seventy-two hours at a stretch. You'd catch a catnap here and there, drink really bad coffee and eat a stale sandwich left over from the Civil War, and go back to work. Sometimes I dream about it, about being back there. Hearing the choppers come in, one after the other . . ."

"Is that why you became a GP?" Roz asks.

"Yeah. I'd had enough of blood and guts." There's bitterness in that simple statement, and pain. A lot of pain. John House never showed any remorse about the wars he participated in, but then he was the one blowing people up, not trying to patch them back together. "I'd rather talk about Doctor House's practice."

"Just House," Greg says. "You're my daddy after all, Doctor Pierce."

"Okay. And on my side of things, just Hawkeye." The older man chuckles softly. "Tell me about your clinic."

"Not much to tell. Two beds, six month waiting list for both."

"You take the cases no one else can figure out."

"They pay more."

That earns him a laugh. "You're not in it for the money. If you were, you'd be grabbing every speaking engagement and chance to publish that comes your way. I know for a fact you haven't done either in years."

"Checking up on me . . . nice." Greg loads the words with sarcasm.

"Of course I checked up on you. I'm curious. Wouldn't you be?" Hawkeye stretches a little. "Curiosity is our stock in trade." It's the truth, so Greg doesn't bother to answer. Hawkeye folds his hands across his belly, and Greg almost laughs out loud at the familiar gesture. It must be genetic. "That said, if you don't mind I'd like to visit your clinic."

The idea makes him nervous. On impulse he blurts out "I've got a student," and wishes with everything in him that he could take those words back.

"Really? A protégé?" Hawkeye sounds surprised but pleased. "That's—that's a great idea. Will I get to meet him?"

"I doubt you'll be able to avoid him." He fights the feeling of his gut tightening. "He's the Goldman kid, their adopted son."

"How old is he?"

"Fourteen." Greg remembers himself at that age—sullen, silent, filled with equal parts rage and confusion.

"That's a tough age," Hawkeye says. "Still a kid, but on the way to being an adult and no clue how to get there."

Roz laughs softly. "That's true for girls too," she says, and Hawkeye chuckles. Again, Greg envies their easy comraderie. He pushes the feeling aside and listens to them talk back and forth, but adds nothing else to the conversation.

Another half hour and they're home. The light shining through the kitchen door window is a welcome sight, though of course Greg would never admit that to anyone else; it's tough enough to know it in his own head. They put Barbarella in the shed and head into the house, where Hellboy is waiting for them, tail flicking back and forth because he hasn't been fed at his usual hour. Hawkeye sets down his duffle and looks around.

"Nice place," he says. "Old houses are the best. This one was well-loved, and still is." Then he sniffs the air, and shoots a glance at Roz. "Spice cake?"

"Spanish bar cake," Roz says. She actually blushes. "Blythe said . . ."

"It's my favorite." He reaches out, puts a hand on her arm for a moment. Greg is reminded of Sarah, her butterfly touch. "Thanks. Let's save it for breakfast, if you don't mind. I'm still stuffed from dinner."

They decide to call it an early night. While Roz shows Hawkeye upstairs, Greg puts the food away, then grabs a beer and goes to the couch. He's searching through channels when Roz sits next to him and rests her head on his shoulder, a sign she's in need of reassurance. He slips an arm around her, brings her closer.

"He's more tired than he wants to admit," she says softly. "Like father, like son." She puts her hand over his. "Do you have work in the morning?"

"The minions can handle things." They've been going through files but haven't struck pay dirt yet. He'll give them another twenty-four hours to find something worth his time, or he'll call a Sunday session and keep them there until they either bring in patients or run out of files. "You?"

"Mandy's coming over in the afternoon to work on her math. Other than that I'm clear." She sighs softly. "Are you really okay with this?"

"Kinda late to ask now," he says, stroking her hand with his fingertips, enjoying the sensation of her soft skin.

"I mean having him here. If you need him to go to Gene and Sarah's—"

"No," he says, to his surprise. "Here's . . . all right." He waits a beat, then says "Spanish bar cake?"

Roz smiles, he feels the corners of her mouth curve against his skin. "I asked Blythe if she knew what his favorites were, and that's what she told me." She sits up a bit and looks at him. "What?"

"He's seeing Mom." The knowledge is . . . confusing, weird.

"Wow." She leans in, kisses him. "You okay with that?"

"Don't know," he says under his breath, and suddenly everything's being thrown at him too fast.

"Well, we'll talk to him about it tomorrow," Roz says, and Greg can't help but smile a little. 'Forthright', Gordon Gordon calls her, and that's such an apt description; it's one of the reasons why he loves her.

"Tomorrow," he says, and returns her kiss. Time enough until then for other, more pleasurable tasks.

_**(The Dinosaur Barbecue actually exists. I haven't had the chance to get to the one in Syracuse or any of the other outlets, but hope to visit one eventually. The menu is to die for and sounds delicious! -B)**_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be welcome. Reviews are like slices of Spanish bar cake-more is better! :)_**


	15. Chapter 15

**_(Thanks to all my reviewers, including those who use the guest review function. I can't answer you directly but your reviews are welcome and enjoyed,and much appreciated -B)_**

_April 13th_

_8:30 a.m._

Hawkeye woke to the smell of coffee brewing. For a moment—just one, fleeting moment—he was six and his father was downstairs making breakfast . . . With reluctance he opened his eyes and remembered where he was—at his son's home.

His son. What a bombshell, and he knew from bitter, unwanted experience what that word really meant; it was exactly right. He still couldn't believe he had a kid. When Blythe had told him, she'd said it very simply. "He has to be yours, Benjamin. John couldn't have children and I've never been with anyone except him, and you." She'd smiled just a little. "Once you meet him, you'll see the resemblance. I knew right away, when they handed him to me in the hospital."

He lay in his comfortable bed and thought about that first moment of knowing—the shock, the astonishment, the anger at Blythe's deception . . . the confusion and pain, and finally the fear at meeting someone who had every right to hate him on sight. He wasn't ready for this, he never wanted this . . . Hawkeye put an arm over his head and winced at the double protest his shoulder and elbow joints gave. For pushing ninety he was in decent shape, but arthritis had been a problem for a while now, and it showed no signs of getting any better.

_Probably because I'm not getting any younger_, he thought dryly, and levered himself up, slow and careful.

A hot shower helped loosen his muscles and ease the soreness. He dressed with care, combed what was left of his hair, put on his shoes and ventured downstairs. The house was quiet but he heard activity in the kitchen—the cheerful, muted clatter of pans and bowls. He came to the doorway and paused. Roz stood at the stove, a clean white apron tied over her sweater and jeans, her feet clad in thick socks—probably House's as the heel ended well above her ankle, Hawkeye noted with amusement. She glanced his way and gave him a smile so sweet his heart melted.

"Good morning," she said, and came forward to give him a hug. He suspected she normally wasn't this touchy-feely, so her ease with him was a delight.

"Good morning," he said, and ambled over to the stove with her. "What's cookin'?"

"Eggs and sausage," she said. "There's fresh coffee, help yourself."

He did just that, and took his first sip as House came into the kitchen. The younger man wore a rumpled bathrobe over a tee shirt and flannel sleep pants; the scowl creasing his lean features warned that speech was not on the immediate agenda. In silence he got a mug, filled it with coffee and departed. Hawkeye watched him go, noting with a physician's eye the slight limp in what seemed to be an otherwise sound limb.

"It takes him a while to wake up," Roz said as she turned the bacon over.

"He's limping." Hawkeye took another sip of coffee. "Arthritis does run in the family." He wasn't about to admit he'd been doing some digging on House's history.

Roz set the tongs aside and took a length of paper towel off the roll. "I'll let him tell you about it," she said, folding the towel, not looking at him.

"All right." The thought that something else might be wrong was surprisingly worrying.

"He'll tell you in his own way," Roz said again, and began to turn the sausages.

"You tell me," House said when Hawkeye asked him about it over breakfast. They were seated at the charming old harvest table by the window, but House looked uncomfortable, his shoulders hunched as he moved scrambled eggs around his plate.

"Could be arthritis," Hawkeye said. "I don't see any other signs, though." He took a discreet sniff of sausage before eating it-a habit he'd never been able to break since his residency, when the dodgy meals served at the local greasy spoon had given him a couple of short but intense bouts with food poisoning. "'Sgood," he said through the mouthful of food.

"Annie's son makes them. She owns an orchard farm down the road," Roz said. "They're turkey and lamb." She got up to get more coffee. As she passed by House she let her hand rest on his shoulder for a moment, her fingers trailing gently across his back. At her touch the younger man relaxed a fraction. Just for a moment he revealed his vulnerable, needy side. Then it was gone, well-hidden behind the steely glare and impassive expression he wore like armor.

"You already know. About my leg, I mean," House said. It was an accusation.

"It came up while I was doing some reading about you, yeah," Hawkeye admitted, and finished off the sausage. "Blood clots aren't a problem on my side of the family. Have you had any trouble since then? Taking anti-coagulants and all that jazz?"

House stared at him, then away. "Worried it's contagious?"

"Sure, why not," Hawkeye said, letting the sarcasm show. "That's how you get 'em, after all. Someone rubs their germs on you and the next thing you know, you're loaded with the damn things." He set down his fork. "So seriously, no problems with clots since that time?"

"What the hell difference does it make?"

"Well, none to me actually," Hawkeye said, though that wasn't strictly true. He'd already come to care about this man, despite House's best attempts to keep him at arm's length. "It means a lot more to you, that's for sure."

House looked out the window. "Values have come back normal," he said, more to himself than to Hawkeye. "Nothing since then. It appears to have been . . . random." He said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"That stinks," Hawkeye said in absolute truth. House glanced at him, picked up his fork and attacked his breakfast.

"It is what it is," he said, and stuffed in an enormous bite of eggs as Roz came to sit with them, her own plate in hand. She watched her husband shovel in the food but said nothing, only began to eat her breakfast with an air of patient resignation Hawkeye recognized as provocative. It didn't take House long to pick up on it.

"I'm offending you with the method I use to ingest food," he said. Roz nibbled some toast.

"No, not at all," she said primly. House's blue eyes glittered. He took a huge chunk of sausage and chewed noisily. Roz raised her brows but said nothing further, just sipped her coffee. Hawkeye hid a smile. These two had the measure of each other, and used their knowledge to deepen their mutual enjoyment of the game they played. Astute, and fun too; he found himself wishing he'd been that smart at their age.

"Don't mind me," he said dryly. "I'll just take my java and make myself scarce," and got to his feet, mug in hand. Roz reached out and touched his arm.

"Please stay," she said quietly. Now it was House's turn to look surprised, though his expression held both mockery and a hard edge of jealousy Hawkeye was sure the younger man didn't know was there. Or didn't care about revealing, at any rate.

"Yes, please do," House said, and made it clear he meant the opposite.

"Two's company, three's a crowd," Hawkeye said, and grinned at them. "I'll just peruse your etchings instead."

That got a snort of unwilling laughter from House. Roz rolled her eyes, but gave his arm a little squeeze before she let go.

He was watching the news when Roz perched on the couch next to him. "We're going over to Gene and Sarah's," she said. "Please come with us, I'd like you to meet them."

The walk was a short one, down a narrow lane to the farmhouse across the field. It was the sort of arrangement Hawkeye knew well from his own childhood and youth; as he loped along behind House and Roz, he hoped the people who lived on the other side of the field were worth visiting.

His answer came quickly. The woman who met them at the back door was a beauty. "Sarah Goldman," she said, and extended a small, work-worn hand. "My husband Gene will be with us shortly, he's in town to pick up a few groceries." Her smile was warm and genuine. Hawkeye remembered a Swedish doctor he'd met once, a woman with the same tilt to her green eyes, the same red-gold hair color, if not the curls, and an intellect as sharp as a scalpel. He suspected the case was the same here.

"Ah, Doctor Goldman," he said. "_In loco parentis_, as it were."

Sarah chuckled. "Guilty as charged," she said, and put her other hand over his. "I'm glad to meet you, Doctor Pierce." She meant it too. Hawkeye felt his heart warm to her.

"_Mom_," House spoke behind her. It was said in a harsh, mocking tone that should have had her flinching, but her face lit up—her smile widened, and Hawkeye saw the love there, deep, profound, bright—before she let go his hand and turned to House. Without hesitation she gave him a hug.

"Hey, son," she said. House pulled a face, but Hawkeye noted he was careful to not move away. Sarah gave his back a pat and let go, though she stayed close. House allowed her to stand next to him. In reality he was sheltering behind her, and she knew it. Clearly the two of them had a strong bond and enjoyed the relationship. Hawkeye found himself pleased for the younger man; while Blythe was a good woman, it was plain she and her son weren't close, though she often talked of him.

"Come in and get comfortable," Sarah was saying. "If you can handle second breakfast I just took some cinnamon rolls out of the oven, and there's coffee or tea as well."

The house was amazing. It was a traditional design transformed by organic additions, which gave it the feel of a treehouse brought down to earth. On this chilly morning there was a well-built fire blazing in the main fireplace, with throws and afghans draped over the couch, and easy chairs placed within the circle of warmth. But the heart of the house was the kitchen, and that was where everyone congregated. Music played on a radio tucked in the corner, while a tall lean man with dark hair hung up his coat by a back door, and a teenage boy wrapped in a thick barn coat brought in a carryall full of logs. House went to the island in the middle of the room, grabbed a plate and loaded it with rolls, took it with him to the counter and began to eat as if he hadn't seen food in days. The tall man and the teenager followed suit. Sarah watched them with a fondness that bespoke long acquaintance with this behavior. It was quite clear she understood the men in her life.

"You'd better step up now if you want anything," she said to Hawkeye. "The locusts will make short work of this morning's baking."

"It smells great but I'm fine," he said. "While they're taking care of business, maybe we could talk for a minute or two."

Sarah turned her gaze to his. Hers was steady, assessing. After a moment she nodded. "We can go into the office."

To his surprise she went to House and spoke with him softly. He glanced at her, then at Hawkeye, gave a short nod and went back to stuffing down rolls. Sarah returned to Hawkeye. "Okay, let's go."

The office was small but well-designed for maximum room and storage. Sarah closed the door behind them and offered a chair, then brought another over next to his. "Fire away," she said with a smile.

"I take it you're Doctor House's analyst as well as surrogate mom and good friend," Hawkeye said. Sarah smiled, and he was reminded once more of the Swedish doctor he'd tried to romance.

"Yes," she said simply. He chuckled.

"Discreet," he said. "A good quality in a confidante. Well, I'm not here to ask you any personal information." He paused, a bit unsure how to proceed.

"You want to know that he's all right," Sarah said quietly. Without the noise and bustle to distract him, he heard a faint twang in her words, an accent he couldn't quite place but which held a hint of familiarity. "That he's doing well and will continue to do so."

Hawkeye didn't know what to say. She tilted her head just a bit, but that steady gaze didn't move from his face. "You've been watching him since you arrived. Not openly, but you've barely looked away. You're diagnosing his health, both physical and emotional, and hoping you're right that he's well because he's given you enough signals that in the past, he wasn't okay. And you've probably read up on him to whatever extent is possible from Wikipedia and papers and what Blythe's told you. Furthermore, I can tell from the way Roz talks with you, allows her personal space close to yours, that you're a good person. She's an excellent judge of character. If you were here for any other reason than to get to know your son, say to trade on his fame or any money he might have, she would have figured it out early on and shut you down. Your body language also tells me you're here to get to know Greg. Your gestures are open, and you hold someone's look without cutting it short or staying with it too long."

"Wow," Hawkeye said finally. "I can see why he's doing better."

"He did most of the heavy lifting himself," Sarah said. "I just gave him a little support when he needed it." She sat back. "Mind if I ask you some questions?"

"I'm terrified you will, but fire away," Hawkeye said. Sarah chuckled.

"I've done a little research of my own," she said. The amusement left her gaze, but the concern remained. "You had a tough time of it in Korea."

"Yeah," he said, and felt the old defensiveness rise up. "Yeah, I did."

"Then you know what it's like to have people expect you to indulge in casual talk about things maybe you've dealt with, and maybe you haven't." It wasn't an accusation nor a warning, but a little of both.

"Listen, I'm—I'm not here to get him to tell me what he's been up to since he popped out of his mom," he said sharply. "I'm here to . . . to try to come to terms with the fact that I've got a son, and maybe I'd like to get to know him a little before I shuffle off this mortal coil. That okay with you?"

Sarah didn't answer right away. When she did, the humor was back. "You're more like each other than you know." She got up. "You've already found out he'll test you, push to see how much you'll take. Be honest and don't let guilt make your decisions for you." She paused. "You've talked with someone about what happened, I hope."

Hawkeye thought of Sidney and their long-ago sessions in the psychiatric equivalent of a M*A*S*H unit. "Yeah. It's been a while to say the least, but . . . yeah."

She nodded. "Good." She held out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Pierce."

"Hawkeye," he said, and took her hand. "I'm glad House has someone like you, Doctor Goldman. You've done a lot more than just offer support."

"Sarah," she said. "Please come and meet my husband Gene and our boy Jason."

Gene reminded him of B.J.—the same quiet easy smile and soft-spoken, amiable manner, and unfortunately, the same fugitive sadness well-hidden behind that smile. He was too young for Vietnam, but there'd been enough 'police actions' in the decades since; one veteran usually recognized another, no matter what war or time period in which they'd served.

The teenage boy standing next to him, with Gene's arm around his shoulder, the one who had brought in the firewood earlier that morning, was clearly not either Gene's or Sarah's—and yet he belonged here, that much was plain. He studied Hawkeye carefully as they were introduced, his dark eyes shuttered. Only when he learned the older man was a doctor did his expression brighten.

"A medical doctor?" he asked. "Can I ask you some questions?"

"Sure. Let's sit down and talk," Hawkeye said, intrigued by the curiosity. Unless he was mistaken this was probably House's protégé. Without hesitation Jason went into the living room. Hawkeye followed him, amused at the boy's need for instant gratification, on this subject at least. They perched on the couch, facing each other. Jason leaned forward, all eager intensity.

"How long have you been a doctor? What was your specialty?"

"Well, I retired a couple of years ago, so about sixty years all told," Hawkeye said. "Had a general practice after the war."

"Which war?" Jason wanted to know.

"Korea."

"Where did you practice? I mean, what town."

"Crabapple Cove," Hawkeye said. "That's in Maine."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Got my B.S. and internship at Androscoggin, did my residency in Boston. But that isn't what you want to know." Hawkeye waited until Jason looked at him. "You want to know how I knew what I wanted to do."

Jason went red, but he didn't look away. "Well . . . yeah."

"I just knew. When I was on surgery rotation . . ." Hawkeye closed his eyes for a moment. "That was it for me, couldn't be anything else."

"I don't understand." Jason sounded puzzled. "You said you were a G.P."

"After the war," Hawkeye reminded him. "I got drafted and put in a mobile army surgical hospital. Three years of that and I couldn't . . . couldn't be a surgeon anymore. Couldn't just have nameless patients that were nothing more than a case file, some anonymous body under sterile drapes. I wanted to get to know people, understand their lives, their histories. A general practitioner in a small town, he or she knows almost everyone, sometimes from cradle to grave."

Jason watched him closely. "Did they make you work on the enemy, was that why you hated it so much?"

Hawkeye sighed softly. "Jason, in the operating room there is no enemy, or there shouldn't be anyway. There are just people who need help. In our case, it was too many people. You had to keep going whether you wanted to or not, and after a while . . ." He debated on telling the truth, then went ahead. "After a while it was like working on one big body all ripped up from bombs and bullets and landmines. So much blood . . ." He remembered seeing pools of it soaking into the wooden floor, splattered on the surgical whites, on the walls and ceiling, on skin of every color, and shivered. "When we all went home, that was it, I was done being a surgeon. I'd had enough." He pulled his mind away from the memories. "You want to be a doctor."

"Yeah." Jason glanced out the window for a moment. Hawkeye studied him. Under the thick unruly waves of dark hair, the boy's thin features revealed a variety of emotions—desire, apprehension, but above all an intense curiosity that spoke well for his chances. "I think I know what I want already. Is that—" He turned to look at Hawkeye. "Is that bad?"

"What do you want to do?"

"What Doctor House does. Find the right diagnosis. Be right." He said it simply, with absolute conviction.

"That's a tall order," Hawkeye said slowly. "A lot to learn. You'll need to study all kinds of things besides medicine, you know. Everything. Stuff you never thought was important."

"Where do you think I should start?" Jason said it casually, but Hawkeye knew a test question when he heard one.

"Oh, I see. Trying to catch me out?" He chuckled as Jason's cheeks grew red once more. "Hey, it's okay. My answer is start at the beginning. Learn the basics down cold. Bones, muscles, veins, nerves. Know the pathways, the systems. Know them up, down, sideways, backwards, inside out-how they work, what they do. When you examine a patient, you look at them and you see all that, you feel it under your hands when you listen to a chest or take a pulse or look in an eye or ear. If you know how the body's built, how it's supposed to work, you'll be more easily able to notice the subtle things that tell you something's not right." He paused. "What grade are you in?"

"Ninth. I'll be in high school this fall."

"You're studying with Doctor House now, right?" Jason looked startled but nodded. "Okay. Tell him you need a copy of _Gray's Anatomy_. You can get an app too, but you need the book."

"Yeah, okay," Jason said. For the first time he smiled. It was tentative but genuine. "Thanks, Doctor Pierce." He got up and stretched a little. "I'd like to email you, if that's all right with you."

"Sure. I'd—I'd like that." Hawkeye stood too. When he turned around it was to find House leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching him. He'd been there for some time, if the sardonic glitter in his gaze was anything to go by. Jason moved by him with no comment, but his cheeks were scarlet once more.

"Interesting advice," House said. Hawkeye rolled his shoulders and felt the now-familiar twinge from long hours of standing over gurneys too low for his height.

"Best I got," he said. "The kid doesn't need it. He's gonna blaze a trail a mile wide, if you let him."

House straightened. "I just kick 'em back into play," he said. Hawkeye snorted.

"That's _your_ story, you stick to it," he said. "Get him the damn book. He's more than ready." He turned toward the kitchen. "Hope you left some rolls, the smell's been driving me crazy."

"Pierce." Hawkeye stopped and turned to look at House. "Talk to me before you give him a cheat sheet." The younger man moved to his side. "Don't want you giving him sixty year old medical advice."

"What's to know? 'Stick out your tongue and say ah' is still popular from what I hear," Hawkeye said, straight-faced. "He'll figure out the breast exams for himself."

"Don't let Mama Goldman hear you say that," House said, and beat him to the kitchen.

_**Thanks for reading. A review would be most welcome. Reviews are like cinnamon rolls-you can never have enough! :)**_


	16. Chapter 16

**_(This chapter is dedicated to Allan Arbus, who portrayed the psychiatrist Sydney Freedman on the tv series M*A*S*H. Mr. Arbus passed away on April 19th. I always loved Sydney; his innate compassion, empathy and humor made him an early role model for me. He saw people as they were and accepted them, did his best to help the wounded find healing, and wasn't afraid to laugh at his own insecurities and foibles. -B)_**

_April 23rd_

_1:30 p.m._

Sarah put the cap on the mustard jar, stowed it in the fridge, and slapped a slice of bread atop the salami, roast beef and pickle sandwich she'd made. She cast a glance at the slow cooker and resisted the urge to remove the lid and see how the pot roast was doing—that would set the braising time back another hour, and both Gene and Jason would want to eat early tonight, since they were headed over to Greg and Roz's place to watch baseball. She would not be joining them, as she had a paper to work on and she'd procrastinated to the point where she'd have to do most of the work in one evening to get it turned in on time.

She took a ginger beer out of the fridge just as someone came to the back door—Greg. He unlocked it and came in, tossed his coat at a hook as he headed up the short set of steps into the kitchen. Sarah was pleased to see him, though she knew this wasn't a social visit. Hawkeye had gone home a week before, and Greg hadn't spoken about it to anyone. She'd waited, knowing he would come to her when he was ready.

"You're out early today," she said, and popped the top on her ginger beer. Greg went to the fridge and rummaged through the contents.

"Minions are running tests. Boring," he said, and dumped a variety of lunch meats and cheese on the counter. "No pastrami?"

"Jason ate the last of it yesterday."

"Hence the idea of shopping lists and visits to the supermarket." Greg sorted through the pile. "Guess I'm coerced into making do with salami. How's the class going?"

"You know perfectly well how it's going, since you stole my notebook and read everything. And then you added your own notes." Sarah sipped her ginger beer and savored the sweet spiciness.

"Commentary," Greg said, and moved to the cutting board. He uncovered the bread loaf and cut two thick slices. "You need an outsider's perspective."

"You know more about psychology than most doctorates do," Sarah said. She took her plate to the breakfast counter and sat down. "You just wanted to kibbitz."

"You wouldn't let me sit in on your last Skype session," Greg said. He put several slices of roast beef on the bread, added a few rounds of salami, piled more roast beef on top of them. He studied the sandwich, added some turkey and pepper jack cheese, put the second piece of bread on top and took an enormous bite.

"It's a good thing I know the Heimlich maneuver," Sarah said as Greg came to perch next to her. "You're not gonna sit in on every communal class discussion. We have to get _some_ work done, you know."

"Ah. I'm a disruption, an anarchic element in an otherwise orderly and dead boring schedule." Greg stole her ginger beer and took a substantial swallow. He made a show of wiping the top off and handed it back to her. Sarah took it without comment. "What, no reprimands, no evil looks?"

"What's a little spit between friends?" Sarah chuckled when he rolled his eyes. "You're not a disruption, you're a distraction. There's a difference." She took a bite of her sandwich.

"Demoted to a mere distraction. I can see I'll have to work on my technique." He let his gaze drift away from hers. "You got to know my bio dad pretty well."

_Oho, coming to the point of this visit pretty fast. He must be worried. _"Yes," she said mildly.

"He took a likin' to you, or whatever it is you Okies say." Greg's words were light, but the way his right knee bounced up and down in a tight little tattoo revealed his anxiety. Sarah ate another bite of her sandwich before she replied.

"It was a mutual liking. He's a good man." She sipped her ginger beer. "I like you too."

"I'm not six years old," Greg snapped. "I don't need reassurance." He set his sandwich on the counter, got up and went to the fridge once more, to bring back a beer. Sarah said nothing. "I can feel your antennae quivering all the way over here," he said, and popped the top to take a long swallow.

"How long have we been workin' together now? Four years," she said before Greg could toss the number at her and add a sarcastic remark. "I've never pulled my punches with you and I'm not about to start now. The human mind is a complex workplace. There's a lot goin' on all at once, and some of it is contradictory, irrational. Even in your super-logical grey matter," she dared to tease. Greg snorted, but he relaxed a fraction. "The thing is, I think a part of you is twelve years old. Another part is forty-something."

"Emotional retrogression due to negative events," Greg said. Sarah nodded.

"I wouldn't put it in exactly those terms, but yes, something like that."

"In other words, you'd pull your punch." Greg shot her a triumphant look and ate a huge chunk of sandwich.

"_No_," Sarah said in mild exasperation. "Did anyone ever tell you you're a brat?" She sighed and picked up her sandwich, put it down again. "I'd say you had two strong shocks to all your systems at those ages, and you're still in the process of healing. You're taking a long time, but that's normal."

Greg chewed and swallowed, drank some beer. "Finding out Daddy Dearest wasn't daddy after all," he said slowly. "And the blood clot."

"Right on both counts." Sarah took a slow breath. "At the moment I think the first one is the most important."

"Because bio-dad showed up." Greg rested the beer on his right thigh, a gesture Sarah noted with wry amusement.

"I'm not saying one permanently supercedes the other," she said. "I'm suggesting your father issues are the ones to pay attention to, for now."

She knew he'd see that as a challenge, and he proved her right almost immediately. "Not gonna pay attention to anything except the fact that he charmed every one of you into accepting him without so much as a background check," Greg said. He drank the rest of the beer in one swallow, throat working, left the empty bottle on the counter and went to get another one.

"Who says I didn't do a background check?" Sarah said. Greg paused. He shot her a look. She smiled back at him and lifted her hand.

"Your grandpa's name is Daniel Pierce. He was a general practitioner in the town of Crabapple Cove, Maine." She folded her thumb into her palm. "Your real daddy went to school in Maine too, but he went to Boston for his surgical residency." Index finger followed thumb. "He was drafted into the Army and served in a M*A*S*H unit in Korea—the 4077th, to be exact." Middle finger down. "Hawkeye's been practicing as a GP in Crabapple Cove since he returned from the war, he took over the practice from your grandfather. He owns the house, the office and two acres. And a fishing dock with a lobster boat." On to the ring finger. "No kids, no lasting relationships, no siblings, no surviving extended family—"

"Yeah, yeah, all right." He opened the bottle but didn't drink.

"I wouldn't let someone like a biological father come into your life without doing some checking up on them first."

"I can take care of myself." Greg said it under his breath.

Sarah nodded. "Yes you can. And I'd do it anyway, because I care about you. You've been hurt enough. I wanted to make sure he wouldn't come into your life and cause more pain than expected, given the circumstances."

He gave her a hard stare. "If you think you can keep bullshit from happening just by wishful thinking, you're delusional."

Sarah held his gaze. "Maybe I can't stop everything, but an ounce of prevention and all that." She smiled a little. "You really are worth it, you know."

Greg was the first to look away. "The man's ninety years old," he said finally. "He won't be around that much longer anyway."

"You're probably right. The question is, do you want him in your life for what time he has left?" Sarah ate some of her sandwich and waited for a reply. It wasn't long in coming.

"Doesn't make any difference. He's decided to be in my life whether I want him there or not." The tone was scathing, but Sarah sensed conflicting emotions. She took a sip of ginger beer and said nothing. Greg looked back at her.

"Oh, aren't you the clever one," he said softly. She raised her brows.

"Yes, well. It's my job to pull magic tricks out of a hat," she said, and ignored his snort of amusement. "Anyway, if you didn't want to talk to me you wouldn't be here now, stuffing down a second lunch and doing in Gene's beer supply."

"Who says I want to talk?" He eyed the rest of her sandwich. Sarah moved the plate out of reach.

"I do," she said with some firmness. "Let's take it to the office. Jason will be home soon."

She brought a plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies with her, a not-so-subtle bribe they both knew was really beside the point. Still, Greg availed himself of them with a free hand, even as he flipped her notebook open and perused the day's new notes. Unperturbed—she'd known he wouldn't be able to resist-Sarah took a cookie. According to Gene and Jason, this batch had turned out well; she'd tripled the recipe and frozen half the unbaked dough, for use when she was short on time.

"Totally devoid of any original thinking." Greg closed the notebook and shoved it from him, took another cookie and scattered crumbs everywhere as he munched.

"Hence the term 'notes'," Sarah said dryly. "I'm not critiquing my prof, I'm writing down pertinent information."

"Why not critique him? Or anyone else teaching this tripe?"

"What makes you think I don't?" She tasted the cookie. Pleased with the flavor, she ate it all and licked her fingers. "Assumptions," she said through a mouthful of cookie.

"You're full of it," Greg said, but his look was speculative. "When, then?"

"Never you mind," she said, knowing he'd make it his business to find out. "We were talking about your father."

"We don't have to." Greg swigged some beer. "Think we've covered that subject anyway."

"Huh, says you," Sarah said, amused. "We've barely scratched the surface." She glanced at Greg and glimpsed a fleeting expression as it crossed his face—fear, naked and so powerful she caught her breath. Her amusement evaporated, replaced by concern. "Greg," she said quietly, "you know I won't hammer you about this. We'll talk, but it'll be at your pace and on your terms. That's the way we've always done things, and that isn't going to change any time soon."

He didn't say anything for a few moments. Then, "I had a memory come up the other day. About—John." His voice was low, hesitant. Sarah sensed he'd changed that last word, substituting his father's name for 'dad'. She said nothing, just waited, listening. "We were walking, holding hands. I couldn't have been more than seven, maybe eight . . . he'd bought me ice cream at the PX. It was a nice day, sunshine, blue skies . . ." He faltered to a stop.

"What else do you remember?" Sarah said gently.

"He looked so young." Greg stared out the window. "He was smiling . . . he was glad to be with me. He . . . he knew I wasn't his, he knew it from the beginning." He looked away from the blustery day beyond the glass. "He was probably in denial."

"Love is weird," Sarah said. She took another cookie. "There can be moments within a relationship, little bubbles where the normal rules are suspended momentarily, for whatever reason."

"That's not love," Greg said. "That's a refusal to face the truth."

"Possibly it's both," Sarah said. "Life isn't black and white, son. We've discussed this before on several occasions." She paused. "Why do you think this memory came up now?"

"How the hell should I know? You're the shrink, you tell me. That's why you get paid the big bucks. Or you will, once you're done playing pattycake with Kimura." The fear was there, just under the scorn. She would have to proceed with caution.

"I can give you my observation if you like," she said mildly. Greg downed some beer and belched loudly. Sarah rolled her eyes. "Okay, I'll take that as a yes." She sat back a bit and relaxed into the chair, knowing she was closely watched for all his dissembling. "Without using a lot of fancy-dancy psychological jargon, I'd say a part of you still loves your dad even though he was an abusive jerk most of the time. This isn't news, we've talked about it before and you admitted there was some truth in that observation. With your real father coming into the picture, you're afraid he's gonna take away the few good memories you've got, or make them irrelevant somehow, and they're all you've had over the years." She tilted her head. "Good so far?"

"Stop fishing for approval and keep going." Greg set the empty bottle on the desk and tipped his chair back—deliberately mocking her relaxed pose, but Sarah could see not all of it was ridicule. He'd calmed down just a little, as she'd hoped.

"Yeah, okay." She hesitated, looking for the right words. "We're back to black and white viewpoints. It's all right to have conflicting feelings, in fact that's fairly normal. It's also human nature to feel love for parents who were abusive or oblivious to the suffering they caused. From what I've read over the years, the empirical data that's come in from various studies, there seems to be some kind of hard wiring that makes us love our family. It's a fairly practical way of making sure the DNA is protected and gets passed on, and life is about propagation and survival, after all." She stretched a little. "But because we have large brains with a big neocortex that lets us overthink everything, we muck up a simple biological function with emotions and expectations that have no basis in reality."

"I think you just described every sexual encounter I've ever known," Greg said. Sarah chuckled.

"It can apply to a lot of biological functions. How many times have you sat on the toilet with a good book, thinking if you give yourself enough time, you won't have to use a laxative?"

Greg squinted at her. "Something you're not telling me?"

"Nope, I'm fine." Sarah ate some of the cookie and chewed slowly, savoring the blend of flavors. "I try hard not to hang onto my shit."

That got a genuine laugh, followed by a companionable silence. "He's . . . he can't take John's place," Greg said finally. "Part of me . . . wants him to try. Another part wants him to go to hell."

"He wasn't there," Sarah said softly. "Intellectually you know Blythe didn't tell him and it's not really his fault, but that twelve year old who just got his suspicions confirmed, he's angry because his real dad never showed up to replace the man who used discipline as a blunt weapon." Greg didn't answer. "And a part of you can't help wondering: what would it have been like to live in Maine with a dad who not only understood why you chose medicine over the military, but encouraged you to do so?"

Silence fell again, broken only by the sound of rain against the windowpanes. Sarah waited. This was the most difficult part of any session, knowing when to speak, and when to let the patient guide things.

"I don't want this." She could barely hear him. "Any of this. It makes no sense, there's no point . . ." The bewilderment behind the hard anger made her heart ache, but she knew better than to give in to the impulse to comfort. That would come later, when he could choose whether to accept it or not.

"If you've been expecting life to make sense for fifty-odd years, no wonder you're crashed out on an Eames chair talking to a shrink," she said dryly. "I said it once before, and it's still true four years later: the world isn't a great place. It has its moments, but it's mostly dangerous, antagonistic and needlessly cruel."

"Huh." It was a sound of amusement, scorn and acceptance, all mixed together. "I still can't believe you actually said it. You're the prototype for wishful thinking."

"At times, yes." Sarah looked over at Greg. "Of course you don't want any of this. No one does. Everyone wants parents who know what they're doing at all times and can handle any emotional crisis or crazy situation life likes to hurl at us. What we get instead are flawed humans. Most of them shouldn't be let anywhere near children, they're too broken or screwed up to take care of themselves, let alone anyone else. But until the powers that be start regulating parenthood, it's pretty much open to anyone and everyone." She smiled a little. "There are those who get it right, even if they make mistakes."

"All of which means plenty of work for you and your ilk," Greg said. Sarah acknowledged this truth with a nod.

"Yes. I don't think there will ever come a day when the human race doesn't need an hour once a week with a therapist."

"Nothing a good fuck wouldn't solve."

"That's what gets most people into trouble in the first place," Sarah said, and enjoyed Greg's chuckle.

"So what do I do about bio-dad?" he wanted to know.

"I dunno. What do you want to do about him?"

"_Shit_. I went through all that for you to lob the grenade back in my lap? Thanks a lot."

"Hey, it's not my call." Sarah took another cookie. "He's your dad. You get to decide if he's part of your life or not, although he'll give you a very hard time of it if you decide he's out. He likes you."

"Wow, I'm overwhelmed." Greg turned the bottle on the desk, watching as it scribed slow arcs across the smooth wood.

"Do you remember the dream you told me about? The one where you were driving Minnie Lou down the highway?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"I think this is part of that," Sarah said, choosing her words with care. "Just a hunch. Something to think about."

"Or not." But she knew he would, despite his quick denial. "We done here?"

"That's up to you. Are we?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Do you have to do that shrink thing with the questions?" Greg glared at her, but she saw a glimmer of humor in his vivid gaze. "It's annoying as hell."

"Really? Why?" She laughed when he growled. "Okay, I'll stop. If you're ready to end here, we can do that." When they stood, she came to him and offered a gentle hug. He stood in the circle of her arms, stiff and resisting for a moment, and then he returned the embrace. After all their years together she knew this was still difficult for him, that he'd always have a rough time with touching and being touched; she was fully conscious of the honor he did her by allowing her to come this close without asking, his great gift to her, a silent measure of his respect and trust.

"When you're ready to talk again, come on over," she said softly. "My office is always open for you, anytime. You know that."

His arms tightened, then released her. "Glutton for punishment," he muttered, but she heard the relief too, and knew he'd be back.

"You know what, I'm playin' hooky for the rest of the afternoon," she said. "Let's watch a game together or something. I need some time off." She grinned at him. "Spend a few hours with me and make all your parents proud."

"Blackmailer," he groused. But he followed her into the living room and claimed his chair as she curled up on the couch. For the duration of the game she had the quiet delight of seeing him slowly relax as they traded snark and jokes and watched the Phils thoroughly trash the Mets on a lovely spring day in Philadelphia.

She sent him home eventually, with a dozen cookies and an invitation to dinner for himself and Roz; she watched him stride down the lane under a borrowed umbrella, no hesitation in his step, and realized once again her life would be considerably diminished without him in it. At last she closed the door on a quiet sigh and went into the kitchen to help Jason with supper.

_'Ladies and gentlemen, take my advice: pull down your pants and slide on the ice.' -Dr. Sydney Freedman_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like finished pages for a paper-the more you get, the better you feel! :)_**


	17. Chapter 17

**_(Hawkeye will make another appearance in the not-too distant future, so we will get to see him sit in on a ddx and a band rehearsal, never fear. -B)_**

_April 26th_

_10:30 a.m._

Greg pulls Barbarella into her parking spot next to the door and shuts off the engine. Looks like everyone's in attendance; the lot is full of cars, including Sarah's truck. She's here for a few hours before going in to work at Lou's, that's good. He has something to give her and he wants to watch her reaction as she receives it.

It's a sunny morning for once, with a blue sky overhead and a soft breeze sure to tease at least a few buds open today; there's a faint haze of green on some of the trees, and the grass is already thick and lush in places. The daffodils and tulips Sarah and McMurphy planted last fall have come up and are beginning to bloom, little drops of cheerful color around the front entrance; there are pots of pansies too, sitting in protected corners where they'll get full sun and can be easily brought in at night.

All this he notes in passing as he heads into the clinic, backpack slung over one shoulder. McMurphy stands at the back of the main room. She's going over a supply list with Sarah and Claire Bailey; in their flowered scrubs the three of them look just as charming and pretty as the flowers outside. There's a fair amount of talk and laughter going on. Greg alters course to pass them by and heads into his office. There he drops his backpack by his desk, peels off his coat and dumps it in a visitor's chair, and glances at his blotter. There's the usual clutter of test results with notes from various team members, files, notices of journal renewals and other detritus of professional life, as well as yesterday's mug of coffee, stone cold and nasty-looking. McMurphy didn't clear it away for him, making good on her threat not to do so any longer because, quote, 'I am not your mother or your maid', unquote.

He remedies that oversight now, going to the kitchen to ditch the old mug in the sink, extract a new one from the cupboard and fill it with fresh tasty hot brew. He's stirring a copious pile of sugar into the dark depths when Bailey comes in. She sees him, hesitates, then scuttles back out again. So, she's still afraid of him. Though he's done nothing (at least today) to cause this reaction, he gives a loud evil chortle just for the hell of it.

He's putting cream in his coffee when Sarah enters. She comes right up to him. The look on her face does not bode well for the conversation they're about to have.

"She's already scared to death of you," she says quietly. "You're just making things worse."

"Not my problem," he says, and makes a move to the door. Sarah stays where she is.

"She's trying hard to do a good job here, she's been through a tough time and she's worried she'll get fired and lose everything."

"Living like a scared rabbit with two kids in the house is a pretty stupid choice," he snaps, more because of the steely look in Sarah's eyes than anything else. It isn't often that she calls him on his actions, but she's doing it now and he knows she won't back down.

"That is not your judgment to make," she says. Now she's mad. The knowledge sends a little chill down his spine. It's rare for her to be truly angry with him, but he's made it happen within fifteen minutes of walking in the door—not a record for him by any measure, but it's something he hasn't done for a while. "I suggest you rethink your strategy. Your usual methods won't work with her." With that she turns to go, a stern expression on her normally cheerful face.

"I have something for you," he says, and winces at the pathetic note of desperation in his voice. Sarah hesitates. Then she faces him. She looks impassive now, unreadable.

"What is it?"

He leaves without saying more. She follows him in silence. When they reach his office he goes to his backpack and takes out the envelope, hands it to her. "Bio-dad sent this. It's for you. He said you'd understand."

Sarah looks at the envelope. Slowly she reaches out and takes it. She glances at him—searching for signs of trickery, Greg knows. After a moment she goes to the coat-free visitor's chair and sits down. He watches her as she finds the note among the old letters, takes it out, reads it.

"These were written by Sydney Freedman," she says at last.

Greg feels a faint surprise. "You know who he is."

"Years ago in college I saw a videotape of a lecture he gave. I never forgot it, or him." She stares down at the bundle of papers in her hands. "Your father says these are letters Sydney wrote to Freud as a sort of cheap therapy for himself when he was struggling with depression."

"Apparently Freedman gave them to him some years back, before his death." Greg's gripping his coffee mug, waiting for her reaction. _You're a moron!_ the voice in his head sneers. _Stop making this so important!_ But he can't help it; he has to know if this bribe—and that's what it is now—will work. Finally Sarah lifts her gaze to his. The anger is gone, replaced by some expression he can't read. Panic rises up in him, but he pushes it away.

"You know, a bribe isn't going to make what I said go away," she says softly. "So let's turn this into something other than that. I'm going to give you something in return." She pauses. "I love you even when I'm upset with you, son. That will never change."

"How is that an equal exchange?" he demands after a brief silence. Sarah blows out a breath and rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling just a little now.

"Ungrateful brat," she says. "Think about what I said. While you're at it, try looking at life from Claire's perspective." She tucks the envelope into her pocket. "Thanks."

"Liar," he says, just to get her going. She flips him the bird as she walks out the door, and he feels his gut unclench as he smiles.

_Pathetic pussy_, that little voice jeers. He ignores it and boots up the computer, puts on some music, the first thing that comes to hand—Willie Dixon. The familiar strains of 'I Ain't Superstitious' are vaguely comforting in a strange sort of way. He kicks back and listens, and can't help but think about what Sarah said.

Through the rest of the morning he pushes her words away, but they keep coming back. He doesn't want to think of Bailey and her brats but the suggestion's in his head and it won't leave. During the update on tests and exams for the latest patient, while he and McMurphy are arguing over mundane items on the supply list and the way she sorts his mail, while he gets more coffee and a couple of doughnuts for second breakfast, he goes over the facts about the young woman's life, fits them together like puzzle pieces.

When Sarah comes in before she leaves at noon, he gives her a glare. "She's still a wuss," he says. Sarah raises her brows. "She is," he insists.

"I disagree with your conclusion. Try again," she says mildly. "You and Roz coming over for dinner tonight?"

"What's on the menu?"

"Wow, love you too," she says, but her smile betrays the tart tone she uses. "I believe Jason is making spaghetti and meatballs."

"Aw jeez," he whines. "Subjecting us to the kid's cooking just to score points, that's so wrong."

"Shut up. Jason's a good cook." Sarah turns to go. "You guys bring the garlic bread. Roz always makes it just right."

"Read the damn letters!" he yells after her as she heads out the door.

It's a bit later, when he's in the kitchen hunting down some chips to go with his sandwich, that Bailey enters. She's clearly scared to death, but she faces him with a determination he can't help but admire a little.

"Doctor House," she says, and he notes she has a nice speaking voice, soft, clear and sweet. "While—while you're at lunch, may I clean your office? Just vacuuming," she adds hastily. Greg stares at her, one hand on the cupboard door.

"Don't touch anything on the desk," he says finally. His words are harsh, but she just nods and goes out. As she turns away he sees her swallow, her shaking hands, and then he gets it, gets all of it.

At the Goldmans that evening, when he's lounging at the table after a decent dinner, that he says to Sarah, "Social anxiety."

"Damn, you've guessed my secret. I've always been such a wallflower," she says, and smacks Gene on the arm when he gives a derisive snort. "Shut up, you big jerk! It's true!"

"_Ow_," Gene says mildly, and rubs his arm. "You pack a pretty good punch for being such a delicate hothouse flower."

"More like a man-eating carnivorous plant. Way to demonstrate the veracity of your statement," Greg says, amused. Seated next to him, Roz chuckles and sips her wine. Jason watches them all as if they're a play and he's the audience. This is the complete opposite of anything he experienced in his old home, and while he's been here for some time now, aberrant adult behavior (at least by his experience) bears close scrutiny.

"Five dollar words don't feed no one's bulldog," Sarah says, but her green eyes gleam with humor. "I take it you're talking about Claire. If so, yes, I concur."

"Not much you can do about that," Gene says. "Meds help, but most of the decent ones have significant side effects."

"We've talked about it a little, but it's a decision she has to make on her own," Sarah says.

"Don't expect me to handle her with kid gloves," Greg says, feeling defensive. "Or handle her at all. Chase will beat me up."

"Give her a little breathing room," Sarah says. "Intimidation will just make things worse, and there are two other people to think of here."

He can't argue with that, so he does anyway. "Bullshit," he says. "The kids are fine."

"They are now." Sarah takes a sip of her ginger beer. "Let's keep it that way."

"So, read your letters yet?" he asks by way of changing the subject.

"No, I've been catching up on homework. Putting off that damn paper set me back two days, so now I'm workin' like hell to get everything done in time for Monday." She sets the bottle down with a sigh. "I'll look at them tonight."

"Look at them now," he says.

"What difference does it make to you? You already read through them."

"I want _you_ to read through them," he insists. Sarah gives him a suspicious look, but she gets up and goes to the office, to bring back the battered envelope. She extracts the top letter from the bundle inside, and scans it. Her brows lift. She skim-reads the body of the letter.

"An interesting idea," she says, more to herself than anyone else. "I was right about the cheap therapy." She looks up at Greg, a sharp, comprehending gaze, but she says nothing. After a moment she puts the sheets of the letter together and tucks them away. Greg allows himself one moment of gleeful triumph; the seed's been planted, and soon enough he'll get to reap the harvest of inside information in the form of her insights into the people around them both. Not that he can't draw his own conclusions just fine, but it always helps to have corroborating evidence.

As he and Roz are walking home she says "She may not show you her letters, you know."

He should have known she'd see through his plan. "Doesn't matter," he says.

"Liar," Roz says on a laugh. "You'll blackmail her in any way possible until she gives you what she's written." She hesitates. "Be careful what you wish for."

"If she writes anything mean about me it'll roll right off my back like water off a duck."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. It's just . . ." She gives his hand a squeeze. "When you know more about people, you have more reason to cut them some slack, because you understand better why they do what they do. Does that make sense?"

It does, and he knows she's right. "I already know why people do what they do," he says. "They assholes."

"Just be discreet with what you might find out," she says, and leans in to kiss him. "Let's sleep in tomorrow. I'll make a frittata for brunch."

"That is a worthy bribe and I accept," he says, and returns her kiss under the open night sky full of twinkling stars, cool and bright.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)_**


	18. Chapter 18

**_(The Professor Longhair song used in this chapter was inspired by Hugh Laurie's excellent new documentary. Anyone who's a fan of A Bit of Fry & Laurie will recognize the tune instantly. A classic, and too good not to steal._**

**_The letter is taken from the M*A*S*H episode 'Dear Sigmund', and was written by Alan Alda/Sydney Freedman, not me. -B)_**

_May 1st_

_2:30 p.m._

Jason got off the bus and waved to the driver, then headed down the driveway. It was a sunny day with a cool breeze; spring was edging its cautious way past winter, tiptoeing into existence. Grass was growing now, and some of the bushes and trees had new leaves. It was still cold at night, and they'd had a snow shower a few days past, but the sunshine was more intense now, and the sky stayed light much longer. Soon they'd be working in the garden and sitting outside—well, after blackfly season anyway.

He used the back door so he could check on the firewood pile. It was low; without Dad around to help him keep it topped off, splits for the woodstove had fallen to unacceptable levels. He'd take care of that over the weekend.

The house was quiet when he came in. Mom was at Poppi Lou's until suppertime. He left his boots and coat ready to grab when he came back through, and went into the kitchen. There was a note from Mom on the counter. She always left him one, sometimes on the back of an envelope or a shopping list, a Post-It, or a sheet of the floral notepaper she liked, full of soft colors and intricate detail. This one was written on plain copy paper, the page torn in half. Her small, firm handwriting was easy to read; he envied her that talent as his own attempts at what she called 'penmanship' were illegible, even when he tried his best.

_Hey love,_

_I hope your time at school was interesting, enjoyable and busy! _

_Would you please take your clothes to the mudroom and sort them for me? I'll do the wash tomorrow._

_Remember to go for fruit and veggies first before cookies. __NO SODA__. Water or hot/iced tea is okay. _

_Call me if you need anything. I'll be home soon. I love you—Mom_

After reading he folded the note and took it with him to his bedroom along with his backpack and sax case. In the bottom drawer of his nightstand a little box was tucked away at the back. He got it out, opened it and placed the paper inside, along with all the other notes Mom had ever written him. The sight of them gave him a profound sense of comfort. He touched the collection of papers with a fingertip, then closed the box and put it away. He gathered up his dirty clothes and carried them through the kitchen and into the mudroom, dumped them by the washer, and stood there for a moment, debating. Then he began to sort not just his clothes but everything waiting to be washed. He could do the whites now and have them in the dryer by the time Mom got home. She'd probably wait to wash the other clothes until tomorrow, when she could hang them on the line.

Once the washer was chugging away, he returned to the kitchen and took a plate from the dishrack. It was the work of a few moments to stack it with two bananas, an apple and half a dozen cookies. He poured a glass of iced tea as well and took his snack into the office, intent on getting the last of his history homework done. They'd just finished a chapter on Lincoln's assassination and he wanted to answer the questions while the day's discussion was still fresh in his mind.

The assignment didn't take long. He munched and drank while he scrolled through the open-book test, returned to the beginning and entered his answers. He finished fairly quickly and ran spellcheck, wincing as words lit up all over the place. He needed help with writing; Mandy had run out of patience with him long ago, so he couldn't turn to her. He'd tried to learn on his own, but somehow the rules just wouldn't stick in his head the way they did for science and math. With a sigh he considered asking Mom if she knew someone who could help, and set the thought aside. He'd talk to her about it after dinner.

He finished the assignment, signed off on it and sent it to his teacher, then picked up his empty plate. As he turned away he saw what looked like a stack of letters next to Mom's computer keyboard. The sight intrigued him. He paused, glanced away, then back. After a moment he set down the plate and plunked into Mom's Eames chair, staring at the letters. He knew he should respect her privacy; he also knew all too well what came of reading letters when you didn't know who wrote them or what they were writing about. And yet . . . the pull of curiosity was strong, so strong he found himself reaching out to take the first letter off the stack . . . _Either do it or don't. Half-assed is not an option,_ he heard House's voice growl in his mind. He snatched the letter and opened it with care. The handwriting was unfamiliar—a man's writing, Jason guessed. And written with a fountain pen; Dad had one, the kind that was so old, you had to fill it from an ink bottle instead of using a cartridge. "The intermediate step between a goose quill and a Biro," Dad had said with a smile.

Jason examined the letter carefully. It was old, the paper yellowed, but it was in good shape, no tears or wrinkles. There was no date on it anywhere.

_Dear Sigmund,_

Who was Sigmund? Probably a friend of the writer, since he was using a first name.

_I've been feeling somewhat frustrated lately, and so I came to a kind of spa. The waters are pretty good here. And the inmates have an interesting defense against carnage: insanity in the service of health._

Jason stopped. 'Carnage'—what did that mean? He grabbed the dictionary—Mom's battered copy of the Oxford English Dictionary, she always kept it within reach—and looked it up. His puzzlement grew. Why would this person be writing about carnage if he was at a spa? Was he in a war too, like the letter writer Jason had researched?

_One of them is particularly good at it—name of Hawkeye._ _Couple of weeks ago he made a round in Post-Op with a personality that had split two for one. _

Jason stared at the page. '_Hawkeye'_? That was Doctor Pierce! How did the letter writer know him? So this must date from the Korean War . . . someone Doctor Pierce knew, a friend . . . but did he know Sigmund too? And what happened in post-op? Had Hawkeye gone crazy?

_Klinger's an interesting case. He's found more ways to go crazy than you've ever dreamt of._

Okay, who was this Klinger guy? And calling him a 'case'? Maybe the writer was a doctor too. Maybe he was a psychologist, like Mom. Maybe that's why she had these letters in the first place. So what was she doing with them—research? Jason thought about it. If the writer _was _a psychologist, maybe he was writing to another psychologist—a friend and fellow doctor. That would make sense, given that the letter so far seemed to be written in that sort of mindset. And it seemed likely he was a friend or colleague of Doctor Pierce. It was probable Hawkeye had given the letters to Mom.

_I guess what draws me to these people is that, faced with aggression in its most brutal form, they've regressed to a state of antic, if not lunatic, pleasure. _

Jason consulted the dictionary again. 'Antic', 'lunatic'—how could those words be associated with pleasure? That didn't make any sense.

_There's been a rash of practical jokes lately. Whoever the perpetrator is, he or she is becoming a folk hero. Rank makes no difference. No one is safe from the mad joker. _

Ah, now he understood. So, maybe Doctor Pierce liked to prank people! Jason couldn't help but smile. He liked the old man, but knowing he might be a prankster almost made him family. He was definitely House's dad, that was for sure. House loved pranking anyone in sight, and he was a master at it . . . Jason took the dictionary once more, to look up 'perpetrator'. He grinned. What a great word! He'd remember that one.

_As you pointed out, Sigmund, there's a link between anger and wit. Anger turned inward is depression. Anger turned sideways is Hawkeye. _

Jason's smile faded. He read the words over again. Anger? Doctor Pierce? That didn't seem right. Hawkeye was not an angry person, at least he didn't seem to be. But if he went through a war, maybe that could change him . . . Jason had found that bad circumstances could make a person become someone else, someone worse, or at least meaner, more cruel; it could also bring out the best in them.

_If there's a way to preserve your sanity in wartime, they've found it here. They slide their patched-up patients into the evac ambulances like loaves into a bread truck, and yet they never forget those packages are people. _

The words evoked stark images, mainly drawn from the war movies he'd seen, and some of the things Dad had told him about his time in Somalia. Jason hoped fervently he'd never see any of that kind of thing for real. He had no desire to go to war or be in one.

_Father Mulcahy fascinates me, Sigmund. He's shy and studious, and yet he's got a left hook that could stop a truck. And with absolutely no training, he seems to be a complete natural as a therapist . . . Margaret's an interesting woman. On the outside all discipline and strength, and on the inside, six kinds of passion looking for an exit. Some people won't accept pain; they just refuse delivery. That's pretty difficult here because pain is such a basic ingredient of a M*A*S*H unit. _

Jason liked the vivid way the writer brought the people around him to life with just a few words. He had a quiet voice, but a true one. It was too bad they'd probably never get a chance to meet each other, though maybe if he talked to Doctor Pierce, it could happen somehow, if the writer was still alive. He wanted to get to know this person, who reminded him of Mom and her calm, observant way of watching the people around her, taking the bad with the good.

_Actually Sigmund, it's a wonder more people here don't take a vacation from reality. Some people even manage to grow. Radar, for instance. In many ways he's just as innocent and naïve as the local orphans he plays with. And yet this boy keeps this unit—this state of chaos—running smoothly. _

Jason wondered if Radar was part of the chain of command, a sergeant or corporal. Dad had told him about the guys who served as quartermasters and clerks, how they kept things together more than the officers did, how they learned to trade with other companies, wheel and deal and bargain with the natives, even speak a little of the local language.

_The one person I can't figure out, even with all you've taught me, Sigmund, is B.J. Hunnicutt._

Ah, so Sigmund was a teacher!

_He's an enigma with size 13 shoes. In the midst of the most horrific enterprise devised to separate a person's brains from his buns, B.J. goes calmly on. I envy his serenity . . . although there must be a volcano under there somewhere. _

Jason smiled a little. That sounded like Dad. People thought he was easy-going and amiable, and for the most part he was . . . but to believe that was all there was to him was a big mistake.

_They look every day into the face of death. On the surface they may seem like other doctors and nurses, but underneath—ah, Sigmund, underneath . . . _

"_Jason_."

He looked up to find Mom in the doorway, watching him. From the tone of her voice it was plain she'd called his name more than once. Guilt flooded him, but he didn't bother to put the letter back—she'd already caught him with it, no point in trying to hide what he'd done. Mom folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe, much the way House did when he was settling in to interrogate someone.

"I do seem to remember the two of us having a talk about privacy," she said at last, her tone deceptively mild. Jason felt his face grow warm.

"'msorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to . . ." Mom didn't say anything; she just watched him. Jason's blush deepened. "It was wrong, but . . ." He tried to find the words. "I just . . . had to know," he finished, and winced at the lameass excuse. She'd never buy it.

"I see," Mom said. She straightened, came into the office, took Dad's chair and brought it over to his, then sat down. "You understand I have to tell Dad about this."

Jason nodded. That meant a family meeting, and he'd get some kind of discipline for what he'd done—probably a three day grounding, or a week.

"I'll call him shortly." She paused. "How much did you read?"

"Just the first letter," he said, and could no longer hold back. "Who's Sigmund?"

Mom looked down at her hands. "I really shouldn't tell you," she said. She sounded strange, until Jason realized she was trying not to smile. She shook her head. "You and the oldest one, you're both hopeless."

"So . . . who is he?" Jason dared to push a little. For answer Mom moved the mouse to open the computer screen.

"Type 'sigmund' into a search engine," she said, and got up. When she reached the door she said "When you're done, come into the kitchen and we'll talk."

Half an hour later he entered the kitchen to find Mom on the phone while she stirred a pot of chicken stew. There were baking soda biscuits in the oven too, filling the air with their savory perfume. So it was chicken and biscuits tonight—comfort food for his parents. That meant Dad would be home either tonight or tomorrow.

Mom put the phone on speaker. "Jason's here," she said. "Let's talk."

"Hey," Dad said. "Would you tell me what happened, please?"

"I read one of Mom's letters," Jason said, and felt his face grow warm once more. "She asked me not to do that kind of thing, but I did it anyway. I—I wasn't thinking."

"That's what your Mom said too," Dad said, his tone wry. "Since she doesn't believe it's the catastrophe of all time and neither do I, we've both agreed that three days grounding with no video games is the way to go on this one."

"_Dad_," Jason groaned, disgusted but resigned. "House is bringing over a new game tomorrow!"

"Then I guess you'll have to find something else to do," Dad said without a trace of sympathy. "When we talk about rules we mean it, Jay. Both your mother and I grew up in families where people took what they wanted and didn't care about privacy. I understand being curious, but you need to think about your actions and the consequences."

Jason had done just that, but he wasn't about to say so since he hadn't really thought about things the way Dad meant. "Yeah, okay," he muttered.

"Good. I love you," Dad said, as he always did when he laid down the law. "I'll be home later tonight. Save some supper for me, all right?"

"We will," Mom said. "Love you."

"Love you both. See you shortly."

After the phone call ended Mom put out bowls, spoons and a basket of hot biscuits, and turned the kitchen radio to the NPR station, as she always did. Jason helped himself to the biscuits and put two in the bottom of the bowl, then ladled a generous portion of stew over the top.

"So how was school?" Mom said after she joined him at the breakfast counter.

"'kay," he said through a mouthful of food.

"Got all your homework done?"

He nodded, swallowed and shoveled in more stew. It was delicious as always, even packed full of carrots, onions and peas. Mom made it that way so he would eat more veggies, but he didn't really mind because the gravy covered the taste.

"Well if you want to, you can keep me company while I work on mine." Mom made a face. "I'm caught up finally and want to stay that way."

Jason nodded. He still found it weird to think Mom had trouble studying; he'd discovered she did better when he was there with her or she at least had someone in the room, for some reason. He'd just always thought normal adults had that kind of thing figured out. It was disturbing to think they didn't. Maybe he would still have problems when he was grown up—then again, he didn't consider himself to be normal.

"Did you google 'sigmund'?" Any other adult would be smirking, but from Mom it was just a basic inquiry, a follow-up on what she'd asked him to do earlier.

"Yeah." Jason gulped some milk to wash down the stew. "Sigmund Freud, right? The father of psycho . . . psycho-analysis."

"Yes."

"So the letter was written to him."

"Yes, and no." Mom used a biscuit to wipe up the last of the gravy in her bowl. "The writer was actually using the letter as a form of journal, and a sort of therapeutic session as well."

"Was he a friend of Doctor Pierce's?" Jason took another biscuit and got up to put more stew in his bowl.

"Yes he was. I can't say more than that."

"Doctor Pierce gave you the letters?"

"Yes." Mom stood and took her bowl and spoon to the sink. "One more question and that's all."

Jason broke his biscuit in half with the spoon. "Why did he give them to you?"

"He thought I might be interested in what the writer had to say." Mom took a casserole dish from the shelf and began to ladle stew into it, to keep warm in the oven for Dad. "I want your promise that you won't read the rest of the letters, however much you might be tempted."

Jason ate a bite of stew and biscuit. "I promise," he said with reluctance. Maybe he could talk to Doctor Pierce and ask him if it was okay—

"No end runs around that promise," Mom said. Jason rolled his eyes behind her back. "Don't roll your eyes at me either."

"_Mom_, I'm not!" He winced at the whiny tone; he sounded like a six-year-old.

"Yeah, likely story," she laughed, but as she went by him she kissed the top of his head and gave him a hug. He squirmed, but it felt good all the same.

They ended up back in the office. Mom put her Professor Longhair playlist, which she claimed helped her concentrate, and got to work. Jason decided on some math extra credit, a fairly useless bit of effort on his part since he already pulled a perfect grade, but it gave him a reason to hang out with Mom. He worked the problems and watched in envy as Mom's fingers flew over the keys without hesitation. She was an excellent writer.

"Wish I could write like you," he said, and closed his mouth in helpless agony over revealing a weakness, even if she did already know about it. Mom paused and looked at him. She smiled a little.

"I can teach you, if you want to learn," she said. "I know a few tricks to get your spelling and grammar kickin'."

"Yeah," he said, relieved and pleased. She'd offered it as one student to another, and he really liked that. "That would be great."

"Okay. We'll start tomorrow, all right? I have to get this essay finished."

"Okay." Jason munched a cookie he'd brought with him. "How did Doctor Kimura like your paper?"

"He had a quibble or two, but otherwise he thought it was pretty good." Mom said it without conceit. "I just hope we don't have to write another one for a while, I barely got it in on time and it took all the wind out of my sails!"

Mom was nearly done and the playlist had reached 'Go to the Mardi Gras' when they heard the front door open, the thump of Dad's duffel on the floor and his call, "Hey, I'm home!" Mom jumped up and hurried out of the office. Jason followed at a slower pace, in time to see his parents embrace and then kiss. When the kiss ended Dad began to dance to the music, lean hips swinging, whistling along with the Fess. Mom laughed and danced with him. Jason watched them, both delighted and embarrassed by the way they swirled around the room together. It was another moment to tuck away in the little box at the back of his head, to bring out later and enjoy.

_'Go to the Mardi Gras', Professor Longhair_

**_Thanks for reading. As always, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like biscuits in your stew-the more the better! :)_**


	19. Chapter 19

_May 10th_

_9:30 a.m._

It's gonna be a good day. Even he has to admit it.

The weather is nice and has been for several days now, a record of some kind, no doubt; the sunshine and warm breezes have everyone in a pleasant mood. Greg sips his coffee and flexes the fingers holding the steering wheel. The old break, the one he'd inflicted on himself during his detox bet with Cuddy years ago, isn't aching for the first time in a week; ditto other ancient injuries. The fact that his right quadriceps is so low on the list as to be a non-qualifier is a cause for celebration, but he just allows himself a smile and blows past a farmer's tractor, lays rubber and careens around the corner. In the rear view mirror he catches a glimpse of the man laughing and shaking his head. That'll give the old goats at the feed store something to talk about today, besides the crap economy and local gossip and the price of wheat, corn and soybeans on the commodities market.

He arrives early at the clinic—well, early for him anyway. Everyone else is already there of course. Humming under his breath, he roars into his parking space, lets his baby cool down a bit, then cuts the motor, climbs out and heads into the clinic. There is a little bounce in his step that feels kinda nice.

The first person he encounters is Chase. He stands in the wide hallway to the conference room, talking with his widdle girlfriend, Bailey. She takes one look at Greg with wide eyes and scuttles off. Chase turns and sees him.

"Morning," Greg says cheerfully. "Doughnuts are on the passenger side of the car. Go get 'em."

"Only if you stop terrorizing Claire," Chase says. He looks grim, his blue eyes steely.

"Just walked in the door. Have I said a single unkind word? No terrorizing going on here." He slips his backpack from his shoulder and begins to unbutton his pea jacket.

"You know what I mean. She's scared to death of you, but she doesn't want to say anything because she's afraid she'll lose her job." Chase speaks quietly, but the anger in his voice is more effective than shouting or histrionics. "I'm not asking for special treatment—"

"Yes you are," Greg says, and shrugs off his jacket. "You want me to be nice to her because you're warm for her form. And because she has a mental illness." He picks up his backpack and turns away to go to his office. "Social anxiety is treatable. So are sexual urges. Drugs for the first, sex for the second. Or you can swap them around, if you're feeling adventurous."

"Meanness is treatable too. You counter it by random acts of kindness," Chase says, following behind him. "I'm asking you to be nice to Claire."

"That's not a random act." Greg opens his office door and tosses his coat at a chair, dumps his backpack by the desk, and eyes the stack of mail on his blotter with mild disgust. "Doughnuts. Car. Go."

Without further discussion Chase disappears. Greg watches him for a moment; the capitulation was too easy. Undoubtedly there will be some sort of hostage stratagem next. Should be entertaining, if nothing else.

After he's topped off his coffee he starts a partial sort of the mail. McMurphy has providentially placed the waste basket close to his chair, so he works on filling it up. He's five minutes into this endless task when a throat being cleared gets his attention. He looks up to find Chase in the doorway with the doughnuts. The box is upside-down; only Chase's thumb on the lid flap prevents them from spilling out.

"What say you?" Chase says. Greg sits back and studies him. Despite the casual tone, his fellow is dead serious. It's kinda cute actually, although annoyance wins out over amusement.

"You dump those, McMurphy will flay you inch by inch while you beg for mercy."

"Hey, it's not up to me, therefore it's not my fault." Chase gives him a slight smirk. "Your choice."

"There's a flaw in your logic," Greg says. "I didn't put you in that doorway, therefore it's not _my_ fault either."

"Ah, standoff," Chase says, calm as you please. He stares at Greg and moves his finger just a little. The lid bulges in an ominous manner. "You'd really sacrifice half a dozen chocolate bavarian cremes and and five chocolate-covered vanilla cakes—"

"Five?" Greg breaks in, frowning. Chase's smirk widens a little.

"Pretty tasty, one of Rick's best batches," he says, and jumps as the box is snatched out of his hands.

"You are _not_ dumping doughnuts on my clean floors," Bailey says. She sounds scared but determined. "I'll take care of this, Rob." She puts her hand on his arm, a quiet gesture that is made more poignant by the fact that she's shaking, Greg can see it from where he sits. Chase sends Greg a glare that should make him spontaneously combust. Greg gives him a little toodle-oo wave.

"You heard the woman. Bye-bye," he says. When they are alone Bailey comes into the office and shuts the door behind her. She advances on his desk, then perches in one of the visitor's chairs with the box on her lap. She is very pale, but she doesn't shrink away.

"I know you don't like me," she says after a moment's silence. "That's—that's okay. But we—we h-have to w-work together, Doctor H-house—"

"If you're asking me to go easy on you because you're Chase's latest fling, don't bother," he says, more harshly than he intended. Bailey flinches, but she doesn't back down.

"That isn't wh-what I was going to s-say," she says, and now there's a spark of anger in her quiet tone. "I know Rob wants to d-defend me, but don't put him in the m-middle. If y-you don't like what I'm d-doing, you come to m-me. Not him."

Greg has to give her credit, under all that fear she's got spunk. "I hate spunk," he says, and shakes his head at her quizzical look. "Nothing. Your request is duly noted. That's quite an achievement on my part, considering that stammer you've got going."

"Does—" She pauses, her voice trembling. "D-does that mean—" She clasps her hands together, her knuckles white. Greg decides to cut her some slack.

"Yeah, yeah, we have an agreement. Now take that damn box to the kitchen and bring me one of each, if they aren't nothing but crumbs now."

Bailey rises to her feet. She makes her way to the door, then turns to not quite face him. "Get your own doughnuts," she says, and takes off. Greg watches her flee and smiles.

"Good for you," he says softly, and returns to clearing off his desk.

An hour later he makes his way to the conference room, where his team is shuffling in with files tucked under their arms and newly-filled coffee mugs in hand. He will never admit this to anyone else—well okay, maybe his wife or even Goldman if pushed to do so—but this moment of opportunity, this window into possibility, is actually one of his favorite parts of the puzzle-solving process. It's like finding new music, going through the notes to hear if it's a decent piece worth playing. The discovery is what gets him excited. Of course he likes to complain about it, but that's just to keep up his image as a lazy, arrogant jerk.

"What have you got for me, people?" he says as he comes in the door, to take his usual seat at the head of the table. Chase shoots him a glare but says nothing.

"Two year old with incipient cataracts, possibly glaucoma," Singh says. He looks intrigued, as he always does when presenting a case. "Hypotonia, too."

"Baby with episodic hyperpnea," Chandler puts in, a direct challenge-typical. "Mom says she's also caught what she thinks was apnea, but she isn't sure since it hasn't been repeated."

"Lung defects? Any extra fingers or toes? Drooping eyelids, low-set ears?" Greg fires at her.

"Don't know," she says with reluctance.

"Why not? That's your job. Find out and get back to me." Chandler looks at him. "_Now_," he says, and makes a shooing motion. "Go on, scoot." He waits until she's out of the room before he speaks again. "Anyone else?"

"It's Joubert," Chase says. "You just sent her off to waste time—"

"—which wouldn't have been necessary if she'd had the facts I wanted in the first place," Greg says loudly. "If you want to bust my chops for what I said to your sweety-pie, then do it. Don't use my teaching method to try to make me feel bad." He peers at Chase. "How long have you known me?"

"Too damn long," Chase snaps, but there's a glimmer of reluctant humor in his eyes before he looks away.

"So put up or shut up," Greg says. With a sigh Chase slaps open his file.

"Eight year old male—"

"Since when did we start running a pediatric clinic?" Greg says it just because he can. Chase rolls his eyes.

"Eight year old male with general muscle stiffness and weakness. Symptoms aren't helped with medication," he says, and pulls a form out of the file. "The primary care physician apparently requested this case be sent to you because she believes it's Schwartz-Jampel, but the parents won't listen to her."

"Interesting," Greg says, and holds out his hand. Chase puts the form back and offers him the entire file. He removes the form and skims it. Notes are concise, orderly, backed with solid information that confirms the primary's diagnosis; complete physical exam, muscle and nerve induction test results, full bloodwork, full MRI; there's even a picture gallery of the child in front, back and side shots. He's impressed, though of course he won't show it. "Kid's short for his age, and he's got the right characteristics—pigeon chest, small lower jaw, narrow corners of the eyes, flattened face." He tosses the form back in the file and shoves it at Chase. "Write up a note confirming the primary's diagnosis and send it to her. Make sure there's a copy for the parents. I want them on my desk by the end of the day." He looks at Singh. "Guess default's in your favor this week."

Singh nods. "I've got more tests coming in from the pediatrician. As soon as they arrive I'll get copies to you and everyone else," he says quietly.

"What's your take?" Greg doesn't ask his fellows that question often, but in Singh's instance it's always warranted.

"The hypotonia is vague enough to make it one of a dozen diseases affecting young children, but the cataracts . . . that's a bit more specific. There's no type 1 diabetes and no history of uveitis, so it may be idiopathic . . . but I don't think so. With the hypotonia, there's something else going on."

"No trauma?" Chase asks.

"Not as far as the patient history shows, but sins of omission have been known in the past." Singh's dry tone holds a modicum of doubt—perfect. "When we do the physical here, we can look for any signs of accident or abuse and go from there."

Greg nods. "Do it," he says, and watches with amusement as Chase and Singh face each other.

"Rock paper scissors?" Chase says with an air of innocent hopefulness.

"I drove the last two times," Singh says flatly. "My oldest has a dance recital tonight and if I don't show, my wife will string me up by a body part that's very dear to me."

"Which would be . . ." Greg let his voice trail off in a suggestive manner.

"Well, I'm attached to all of them," Singh says, "but some more than others, emotioanlly speaking at least." He gives Chase a cool stare. "Your turn. Enjoy Syracuse."

"Ah, come on," Chase whines, but he doesn't push because he knows he has nothing to back it up.

"You're bringing us barbecue too," Greg says, just to stick it to his fellow even more. Chase gives him a disgusted look, but it's only partly a put-on; he likes brisket and pulled pork just as much as everyone else.

The thought of food sends Greg to the kitchen, where the much-traveled box of doughnuts sits on the table, battered but intact. He takes a chocolate crème and devours it while he ditches his cold coffee and gets a fresh mugful, then plunks two more doughnuts on a plate and heads to his office, in time to find McMurphy emptying the trash and dumping more mail on his desk.

"I just sorted through everything!" he protests.

"That was yesterday's batch, the one you ignored. This is today's."

"How totally unfair is that?" he bitches, and catches sight of Chase walking by, a big smirk on his face. Greg sends him a glare, then picks up the entire batch of mail, ready to consign all of it to the trash.

"Stop!" McMurphy grabs his wrists. Her hands are surprisingly strong, her palms cool and dry. She guides the mail back to the blotter, releases her hold on him, then takes an envelope from the top and gives it to him. "Read your damn mail," she snaps, and stalks out of the office. Greg sticks his tongue out at her retreating form. He dumps the envelope on the pile, looks at it. It's handwritten, and the return address is Crabapple Cove, Maine.

Inside is a single sheet of plain white note paper, with a simple letterhead at the top:

_From the office of_

_B.F. Pierce, MD, GP_

Below it there's a brief note written in an angular hand.

_Greg,_

_Just wanted to say thanks again for the chance to get to know you a little. I hope that feeling was mutual to some degree._

Greg thinks back to Pierce's visit—not a stretch, since it was just a week or so ago. Of course any visit from a biological parent who's been absentee for your entire life, well . . . not exactly a recipe for good times. But it really hadn't been that bad.

_Your wife is a treasure. I know you know that already, but it bears repeating._

Roz hit it off with the old man right from the start. Greg suspects she's soft on him because he charmed her, but they also just took to each other. There was a mutual liking, that instant affection he always finds so utterly baffling. How do people _do_ that? He's never been able to figure it out. But he can't help but be a little pleased that she likes his bio-dad. It reflects on him, in an oblique sort of way.

_Thanks as well for allowing me to sit in on the Ddx. It was an enlightening experience. Maybe we can do it again sometime, if that's all right with you. _

Much to his surprise, Pierce had held his own pretty well during the differential. Old he might be, but his cognitive skills and lifetime experience in spotting anomalies and odd facts are still intact. His comments, spiced with a fine sense of the absurd, had added appreciably to the session . . . Even so, Greg's a bit startled to realize he actually wouldn't mind having Pierce sit in with them again. He sets the idea away, to contemplate later.

_Take good care of Jason. You've got an excellent student in him. He's a little impulsive, but he's got plenty of what it takes to be a fine doctor. He might not say it, but he looks up to you. Remember that. _

Whether Pierce means it or not, there's a distinct fatherly tone to this passage. Greg frowns at it, but wavers between taking umbrage and accepting the truth of what he's saying. Truth wins out, in the end.

_Anyway, we'll talk soon. Take care of yourself. All my best to everyone there. _

_-Hawkeye_

So, no mention of Blythe. Looks like he'll have to be the one to bring up the shocking pink elephant standing in the middle of the room. He picks up the phone and dials the number before he has time to think about what he's doing.

"Well, good morning," Pierce says when he answers the phone. It sounds like he's smiling. "Got my letter, huh? That was fast."

"As fast as you picking up where you left off with my mother," Greg says. There's a brief silence.

"I should've known you'd figure it out." The humor is still there, but less now. "Listen, I wasn't trying to hide it from you. I just . . . didn't know how to talk to you about it, okay?"

"What's to talk about? She's younger and reasonably attractive—"

"No, it's not like that. We aren't together that way." Pierce sounds defensive now, but he's not evasive or lying—Greg can hear the truth in his words. "This was never about love, you should understand that. This was a one-time meeting that happened years ago, but it's only now that I'm getting a chance to find out what she's like. And vice versa."

"What's the point?" Greg asks. "She got what she wanted. Presumably you did too."

"So what, sexual gratification is the be-all and end-all of existence?" Pierce sighs. "Yeah, well maybe when I was younger than you, I might have thought that was true. But it isn't. There's such a thing as enjoying someone just because of who they are. You and Roz have that."

Greg thinks of his wife—his lover first, and he has to admit it to himself if no one else, his friend. Best friend really, now that Wilson's gone. Maybe even if Wilson wasn't gone. "So you're hot for her mind? I hate to say it because she's my mom, but you're doomed to disappointment. She's no Rhodes scholar."

"You'll excuse me if I point out there are other qualities just as valuable, if not moreso, than intelligence," Pierce says sharply. "Blythe's a good woman. She's made her mistakes, but so have the rest of us."

No arguing with that statement, so he does it anyway. "Some peoples mistakes are bigger than others. Quality, not quantity, at least in this case. So you're buds because she's such a sweetie? Hard to believe there aren't women closer to home." He's curious about the reception that observation will get.

"I'd just like to know your mother better. It's not a crime, though you're working hard to make it seem like one." Pierce gives a sort of half-amused, half-angry bark of laughter. "Want us to record our dates?"

"Not a bad idea," Greg says, though he can't imagine a worse punishment than watching this man and his mom trading _bon mots_ over a dinner at Denny's. "Going to make an honest woman of her eventually?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

Greg is startled into a choke of laughter and hears Pierce chuckle, a knowing, warm sound that touches something deep inside, though Greg tries to push it away.

The call ends with talk of Pierce coming down again later in the summer to visit. Afterward, Greg tips his chair back and listens to Elmore James singing 'Comin' Home', that sweet slide guitar like good sex, slow and easy, and thinks about parents and parentage, two very different things in his experience, and how interesting it is to have a dad as opposed to an authority figure cloaked in the guise of father.

A little after one, Roz shows up. She's wearing her new work gear, with her old beat-up gloves hanging out of her back pocket; she looks competent and confident and sexy as hell, especially when she sits on his knee, slips her arms around him and gives him a kiss that feels like he's just touched a live wire—electricity everywhere.

"Wanna mess around?" he leers. Roz smiles at him, her eyes green as leaves.

"Yeah," she says. "I have five minutes free," and laughs when he nips at her earlobe in retaliation.

They end up in the supply closet, giggling as they struggle with buttons and zips, hands all over each other like horny teenagers. When they finally do make love he hears Elmore James singing in his head: _well I'm comin' home to you baby/and I ain't gonna leave no more . . . _

Afterward they hang onto each other, sweaty and trembling, their breaths mingling in that intimate way he loves. He nuzzles her, steals a kiss. She tightens her hold on him gently. "I needed that," she says. He draws back to look at her.

"What's up?"

"You," she says, and laughs, soft and sweet.

"Not any more." He touches her hair, lets his fingers come to rest on her cheek. "Tell."

"Sometimes . . . I just get lonely for you. Lonely for us, you know?" She rests her forehead lightly against his neck. "I miss you when you're not with me," she whispers, and the truth in her words frightens as much as it elates him.

"If you hung around me all the time I'd drive you insane," he points out.

"I didn't say this made sense. It's just how I feel. Not every moment. Just . . . sometimes, when I think about what we've been through." She sighs softly. "What we . . . I . . . lost."

"We." He kisses her temple. "Gonna get mad at me for analyzing."

"No, that's just how you do things, _amante_. I kinda like it."

"Good thing," he says, and means it. "You're supposed to feel like this. That's what Goldman would say, anyway."

"Do you feel that way?"

"Mmmm . . ." He puts his nose in her hair and breathes in her fragrance, reassured by the familiar scent. "Yeah," he says softly, so only she can hear it.

They stand there for a while, content to be close. "What's for lunch?" he asks finally, and Roz laughs.

They eat together outside, sitting on the picnic table, not saying much. When they're done she tidies up in her quiet, efficient way. Then she leans in, gives him a kiss. It's a talisman, a promise. He takes it and gives her one in return.

"Check your email later," he says.

He doesn't have to look up the passage; it sits in his head, placed there by his analyst, who quoted it to him once during a period of deep darkness and turmoil. He comes back to it frequently, has even recited it aloud to his wife and gone so far as to give her the history behind it, knowing she will understand and keep his confidence. By sharing it with her now, he knows it's as much for him as it is for her, and curiously enough, that's all right.

'_So you mustn't be frightened if a sadness rises in front of you, larger than any__ you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows, moves over your hands and over everything you do. You must realize that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall.'_

'_Comin' Home,' Elmore James_

'_Letters to a Young Poet (#8),__' Rainer Maria Rilke_

**_Many thanks for reading. A review would be most welcome, if you're so inclined. :)_**


	20. Chapter 20

**_(Many thanks to all who have favorited my stories and/or me as author. As always, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. It's great fun to write House fic; I hope it's as much fun to read. -B)_**

_May 18th_

_7:45 a.m._

Sarah ran the spellcheck again just to make sure she'd caught all the typos. Nothing turned up; satisfied, she saved the essay and sat back in her chair, tired but pleased. After a moment she reached for her mandolin and settled it in place, checked the tuning, and began to play softly, mindful that her husband was upstairs asleep after arrival in the small hours, and Jason was undoubtedly still buried in his nest of bedclothes. She smiled a little at the tune, one of her grandmother's favorites, and picked a few harmonics, tapping to make them ring just a little. The familiar melody unreeled in her mind's ear and she followed it, enjoying the way her fingers found the notes without conscious effort on her part. Another couple of weeks, and her class would be done. Once her grade was sent to the board, she'd be okayed to hang out her shingle . . . She tipped her head back a bit and closed her eyes, to picture the small room at the church with her in residence, and a patient on the other side of the desk.

Much to her surprise, her mother appeared in the chair. Sarah stopped playing and frowned. "What the _hell_," she said, her pleasure in the music derailed. The image vanished, but the feeling it brought to mind stayed. Sarah set the instrument aside and sat up slowly. After a moment she opened the top side drawer and drew out a bundle of cloth. With care she moved the keyboard aside, then opened the cloth to reveal a deck of tarot cards. She shuffled the deck, cut twice, then dealt out three cards face down. She reached out, turned over the first card.

"What are you doing?" Jason stood in the doorway, all tousled hair and rumpled sleep clothes, watching her. The wary look on his face spoke volumes.

"A little consulting." She smiled at him. "Come on in." He edged into the office but didn't move any closer. "It's all right, they're just cards."

Jason looked at the card she'd turned right side up. "Why do you use those things?" He sounded both confused and a bit disgusted. "They're . . . superstitious."

"You've been listening to Doctor House," Sarah said, amused. "That's his opinion. I don't agree." She tilted her head a bit. "Have you had breakfast yet?" Jason shook his head. "Me either. Let's eat and then we'll talk about tarot, if you like."

"What about your—your whatever that is?" Jason said.

"It's called a reading, and it'll keep till after breakfast. Come on, let's see what we can find."

She made cheesy eggs, along with home fries from last night's leftover baked potatoes, and some hot cocoa because it was a chilly morning despite the sunshine slanting through the windows. Jason devoured two platefuls and took a large mug of cocoa, but not before he added a shot of coffee. Sarah watched him, brows raised. He glanced her way, gave her a defensive look. "It just tastes good," he said. In reply she did the same thing.

"I like mocha too," she said with a slight smile. "Just don't put in too much, okay? When you're sixteen you can switch over to coffee if you want to. God knows you'll drink enough of the stuff when you're in college."

"I tried coffee once," Jason said. "It's too bitter." He sipped his cocoa. "Can we go look at the cards now?"

"All right," Sarah said mildly. Dishes could wait till later; this was far more important. She led the way to the office. They sat down together at her desk.

"So what does this card mean?" Jason pointed at the one she'd turned over.

"The Daughter of Pentacles," Sarah said. "In more traditional decks this would be called the Page." She touched the card with a gentle finger. "Before you consider the meaning, you have to know the type of spread used to ask the question. But what's most important is why the question was asked in the first place. When people want a reading they're usually at a crossroads of some kind, or they need clarification on an issue or problem."

"So what is it?" Jason wanted to know. "The question, I mean."

Sarah didn't answer him right away. "I . . . had an insight," she said slowly, "but I'm not sure of the meaning. So I'm using the cards to help me understand what I saw."

Jason took Gene's chair and brought it over to sit next to her—a gesture so reminiscent of Greg she had to hide a smile. "What did you see?" he asked quietly. "I won't talk about it to anyone else."

"I know you won't," she said, and reached out to tuck an unruly wave of dark hair behind his ear. "I was thinking of my office and starting my practice, and I saw . . . I saw my mother on the patient's side of the desk."

"Okay." Jason moved his chair a little closer to hers. "What does the first card have to do with what you saw?"

"Well . . . I asked a question with three parts to it. Why did that image show up in my imagination? What does it mean for my work? And what does it mean for me?" Sarah sighed softly. "The Daughter of Pentacles is about dreams, and how to manifest them in the physical world. It's about planning to bring your dreams into reality, being enthusiastic and open to learning and growth. I think . . . for my mother to show up in the middle of that means some part of me is worried that my dreams will turn into a nightmare."

Jason didn't say anything, but after a moment he took Sarah's hand in his. His clasp was firm but not too tight.

"You haven't turned the other cards over yet," he said after a few moments.

"Why don't you do the next one?" she said. He hesitated, but reached out with his free hand and flipped over the card. Sarah looked at it.

"Hmm . . . The second question was, what does the image of my mother in the patient's chair mean for my work? And this card is the Shaman of Wands—a King, in a traditional deck." She thought about it. "There's reassurance and caution here. It's a reminder to follow my vision, to keep my intent clear and stay focused on long-term goals despite possible difficulties and obstructions. It's also about taking on opportunities and challenges, but to watch out for arrogance and over-confidence, and locked-in patterns of thought. And to ask for help when help is needed." She squeezed Jason's hand gently.

"What about the last one?" he said finally.

"Go ahead and turn it over."

It proved to be the Five of Wands. Sarah winced.

"What is it?" Jason sounded worried.

"Damn fives," she said under her breath.

"_Mom_—"

"It's okay," she said. "A five card means you've got some kind of conflict and change ahead. But if you think about it, that's how life is, isn't it? Sometimes you go through rough patches where it seems like everyone's givin' you a hard time and you just can't seem to settle in. Or you're starting something new and there's what sailors call a shakedown cruise, to get all the bugs out and make sure everything works right." She felt Jason relax a little and went on. "I think . . . this is a warning about letting my worries get the better of me. Nothing productive comes out of obsessing over things and constant internal battles. All that does is wear you down and make you cranky."

Jason nodded. "Okay, that answers the last question. But I don't see how you couldn't have figured this out by yourself."

"Well of course I could have," Sarah said reasonably, "but it would have taken me a lot longer to come to those conclusions. For me, this is a more direct way. It doesn't work for everyone, but it does in my case."

He thought about it for a while, still holding her hand. "They're just pictures," he said. "I don't understand how they help you."

"Well, one of the great teachers of psychology thought that all the humans on the planet have a sort of unspoken connection to each other. He called it 'the collective unconscious'. And in that connection, we share certain images in common. He called those 'archetypes'. Mother, father, daughter, son, water, fire, air, earth . . . and more." She looked over at Jason. "Does that make sense?"

"You're saying the connection is because we're all humans and we have some of the same experiences," he said slowly.

"Yes, and those same experiences have been going on for many generations, most likely from the very beginning of our species. That creates images or symbols we view as immortal, unending." She touched the first card with her finger. "This is one of many ways of accessing those ancient symbols we all have inside us."

"You can't prove any of that," Jason said. "None of what you just told me is verifiable." He said the word with pride. Sarah didn't speak for a few moments.

"I know that your teachers and Doctor House have taught you about the empirical method," she said at last. "That's good. It's an excellent way to explore the world around you. But it isn't the only way." She chose her words carefully. "We are more than just our five senses, Jay. I believe everything around us has a spiritual component as well as a physical one, and we as humans do too. Because of that spiritual side, things happen that we can't explain with science—not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever, I don't know. Anyway, I think you'll find during your studies that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophies."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that while you may know some things, there's a whole lot more you don't know, and it's a good idea not to forget it." Sarah softened her words by bringing his hand to her lips for a quick kiss. "Just remember that. You're going to meet people who believe all kinds of stuff you find ludicrous or weird or just plain wrong. Keep your mind open, okay? You don't have to believe. You just need to listen."

Jason gave her a look, his dark eyes skeptical. Sarah smiled a little. "Ask Doctor House about it," she said, and gathered up the cards to put back into the deck.

"He doesn't believe in any of what you just told me," Jason said.

"For the most part you're right, he doesn't. But he still listens to his patients when they tell him they do, because it's important to know about a person's belief systems, what they consider important, what's right or wrong to them. What a person believes influences their actions, Jay. Intent shapes action, and belief backs up intent-it comes first. If you want to be a diagnostician like Doctor House, you need to understand that and accept it."

"So . . . I should study belief systems," Jason said slowly. "All of them."

"Well, not everything at once. You can take them one at a time," Sarah said. "Start with the major systems and work your way through. They'll lead you to others. It's fascinating." She got up and went to the bookshelf, came back with her battered copy of _Major Religions of the World_, which she offered to Jason. "This is a good place to begin."

"You've read this." It wasn't quite an accusation. Sarah chuckled.

"Many times. I like reading about the kinds of beliefs humans have created over the millennia."

Jason looked at the book. He opened the cover, moved past the opening pages to the introduction. After a few moments he got to his feet. "Thanks, Mom," he said, and leaned in to kiss Sarah's cheek. Then he went out to the living room to stir up the fire and claim the couch before settling in to read. Sarah watched him from the office doorway. _He's growing up so fast_, she thought, and drew her breath at the joy and sadness that knowledge brought her. Quietly she slipped away to the kitchen, to wash up the dishes. If she wiped away a few tears during the process, it was no one's business but hers.

She was sorting through the previous day's mail when Gene came in. He looked tired and he moved as if his lean frame ached, but he got himself a cup of coffee and added copious amounts of sugar and milk to it before he sat down next to her.

"How's your week gone?" he asked, as if he hadn't talked to her every day while he was away.

"Uneventful. Finished the final essay for my class," she said, working hard to keep her voice even. Gene sat up a little.

"That's not 'uneventful'. You're about to get the okay to start your practice." He set his coffee aside and took her hand in his, then tugged gently. "C'mere."

She got up and settled on his lap, felt his arms go around her and lay her head on his shoulder. "You should be in bed," she said softly.

"I'll go back in a bit. Right now I want some time with you." He kissed the top of her head. "You're stewin' about opening your office."

How well he knew her. "Sort of," she said.

"Has our oldest boy been over yet to give you a hard time?" The smile in his voice made her smile too.

"Not yet, but I'm sure he'll show up eventually."

"I see you have the youngest one occupied. He was so deep in that book he didn't even hear me come down." Gene rubbed her hip gently. "Whatcha got him readin'?"

"_Major Religions_," Sarah said. Gene blew a breath.

"More like _Major Propaganda_," he said, his tone derisive. "What are you gonna do if he decides to go to church?"

"Make sure he's wearing clean clothes before he leaves the house on Sunday," Sarah said, and chuckled when Gene groaned. "Michael Eugene, it's his choice, just like it was for us." She put a hand on his chest. "I don't see him doing that anyway. He's a natural skeptic."

They sat in silence for a while, content to be close. "Come upstairs," Gene said at last.

"But I've got all this mail to go through," Sarah said.

"The damn mail can wait." He picked up the stack and set it aside, more for show than anything else, she suspected.

"Well, I just don't know," she said, prim as a maiden school teacher. "Bills come first."

"Not before me," he said, and slipped his hand under the waistband of her jeans to cop a feel so hot she gasped.

They snuck upstairs past a rapt Jason, closed the door and enjoyed a lengthy session of slap and tickle before sleep claimed them both.

It was past noon when Sarah left Gene and went back downstairs, to find Greg in the dining room playing her mandolin with his feet on the table. She lifted them off and went by him, humming to herself as she put the kettle on for tea.

"Hope you and Gunney had fun getting re-acquainted," Greg said, and strummed a chord.

"Where's your wife?" Sarah took a teabag from the canister.

"Off working a side job. Some farmer wants his barn grounded or something to that effect." He played another chord. "You're propagandizing the kid."

"You want him to know basics, don't you?" She got a spoon from the drawer.

"I want his mind free of garbage."

"He has to learn about religion and philosophical tenets sometime. Better for him to do it now, while he's got the time to think about what works for him and what doesn't. He'll be too busy later to give this the attention it deserves."

Greg said nothing for a while, his lean fingers busy with the music. When Sarah sat at the table next to him he said "It's one thing to know about human imagination. It's another to believe in the nonsense it creates."

"Have a little faith," Sarah said, and laughed when Greg rolled his eyes. "Sorry, couldn't resist."

Greg picked out the melody for 'What A Friend We Have In Jesus'. "You think he's gonna buy into anything in particular?"

"You've already got him invested in empirical method," Sarah said dryly. Greg stopped playing.

"And you disapprove."

"_No_," Sarah said in mild exasperation. "But you're doing him a disservice if you tell him that's all there is."

"That _is_ all there is."

"Oh, baloney," Sarah said. "Here, give me that." She took the mandolin from him and began to pick the chords for 'Whiskey Before Breakfast', the song she'd been working on while finishing off her essay. Greg raised a brow.

"Wishful thinking," he said.

"Some mornings. I just keep it to a cup of tea, though." She glanced at him. "I'm not sayin' you have to tell him there's a Santa Claus, but it does help to keep an open mind about why other people think he exists."

"People are morons." Greg watched her for a moment, then stood and left the table, to return with the Martin six-string. He gave it a quick tune, then joined her in the melody. They played together for a couple of verses before Jason appeared in the doorway, book in hand.

"I have some questions," he said. Sarah gave Greg a look and picked a final chord, then gestured at a spot across from them.

"Sit. Ask," she said. Jason obeyed and opened the book.

"Okay, I don't understand what this means . . ."

After about ten minutes Sarah eased out of her chair and took herself and the mandolin to the office, where she opened the computer screen, read over her essay one last time, then sent it off. To celebrate she pulled up her favorite rendition of 'Freeborn Man' with Tony Rice's high lonesome voice offering up the lyrics and played along, enjoying the feel of the chords flying effortlessly down the length of the melody. She'd left her boys deep in discussion, two intense natures pitted against each other, but less in competition than in an attempt at mutual understanding. That this was an enormous concession from Greg she understood, even if Jason was unaware of it right now; it was a gift beyond price, and his alone to give.

It was some time later when Greg showed up in the office doorway, glowering at her. "You're gonna pay for that," he said. Sarah laughed and set her mandolin aside.

"Go get the guitar," she said. "We can play until he comes up with the next set of questions," and laughed again at Greg's groan. "Hey, you're the one who wanted a protege. This is the price you pay for such hubris."

They played through the afternoon, interrupted twice more by Jason, until Gene came downstairs and called a halt by suggesting they go to Lou's for dinner, a suggestion readily agreed to by all parties. Greg went home to get Roz, while Sarah put on a clean shirt and jeans. She was in the middle of brushing her hair when the resolution of her insight opened in her mind, so simple she sat there in astonishment.

She saw her office once more, bright in the morning sunshine, and once more her mother sat on the patient side of the desk—but it was her mother as a young woman, beaten and ragged with the blows life had dealt her, but still unbroken; then her father as a youth, clutching a battered sketchbook; Greg as the child she'd seen in her dreams, sunburnt, his chestnut hair buzz-cut by a ruthless hand; Gene, tall and thin, arms folded in a defensive gesture, his pirate's features creased in a grim expression; and at last herself, all sharp elbows and skinned knees in torn clothes.

_Remember to re-examine your own beliefs_, that little voice whispered deep inside. _Your understanding of others is a drop of water in their endless oceans._

"I get it," she whispered, shamed and lifted up at the same time.

"Hey Goldman! You coming with?" Greg bellowed downstairs. Sarah put down her brush.

"I'm coming!" she called, and glanced at her reflection in the mirror before she hurried to join her family.

'_Whiskey Before Breakfast', traditional arrangement_

'_Freeborn Man', Tony Rice, Mark O'Connor, Bela Fleck_ (Merlefest early 90s, vid at YouTube)

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like bluegrass tunes, you can never have enough to enjoy :)**_


	21. Chapter 21

**_(A blessed and peaceful Memorial Day to my American readers, and a profound thanks to all who've served in the military. -B)_**

_May 24th_

_2:30 p.m._

Jason hopped off his bike and waved at Mrs. Faust as she pulled out of the clinic parking lot. She was leaving a little early so she and Mandy could head off to Albany, where Mrs. Faust's parents lived; they'd be spending the long weekend there . . . As they drove away he watched them go with a funny feeling inside. He and Mandy would be online or on the phone through the weekend, but that wasn't the same as having her there with him. He liked her practical mind, the honest way she spoke even when she was being bossy, her goofy laugh, how she stretched and curled up like a kitten when she was on the couch reading or writing. And she was one of the few people outside his family circle who actually liked him.

"She'll be back. Stop mooning around and come inside," Rob said from the doorway. Jason turned to find the older man smiling at him, his blue eyes twinkling.

"I'm not-not mooning around," Jason said, but he followed Rob into the clinic, to store his bike in the back room, hang up his coat and put away his backpack and sax case. McMurphy went by him with a smile and a light pat on the shoulder; they were friends now, he liked her sarcastic sense of humor and the way she ran the clinic without drawing attention to herself.

"Yeah you were. It's okay though, Mandy's worth it." Rob brought him into the conference room. A plate with bananas and cookies stacked on it sat on the table, along with a couple of bottled iced teas and some anatomy charts. "Ready for a pop quiz and some new homework?"

Jason felt nervous and excited at the same time, as usual. "Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, good. Kick back and get comfortable, we're gonna be here a while." Rob sounded cheerful. "Lots to go over today."

Jason nodded. He was learning what Rob called 'bone basics'; they'd already begun with fingers. It wasn't as easy as he'd thought it would be—he'd never imagined there were so many bones, and all with Latin names he'd found difficult to remember at first. Now it was a bit more familiar and he was beginning to know his way around the words a little, but he still had a long way to go.

Rob took a seat at the table, popped the top on an iced tea, took a long swallow and snitched a cookie. "Need to use the bathroom before we start?"

Jason took the opportunity. He didn't really have to pee, but he also didn't want to take time later, when he'd be busy concentrating and distractions would cause problems. So he used the toilet, washed up and wrinkled his nose at the flowery hand soap—Clare must have bought it, neither Mom nor McMurphy would get something so girly—and went back to the conference room. Rob was kicked back with his feet propped on the table, munching another cookie and glancing through the battered copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ he'd given Jason as a gift.

"I see new notes added to mine," he said, and sounded pleased. "Ready?"

Jason grabbed an iced tea, opened it and took a taste. Though he really didn't want it, he knew from experience his mouth would get dry from nerves. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"Okay." Rob flipped a page. "Bones of the wrist."

"There are thirteen bones. Eight carpal bones: scaphoid, lunate . . . tri—triquetral . . ." Jason faltered. "Pisiform . . ." His mind blanked. "Dammit."

"That last one isn't right," Rob said, and chuckled when Jason glared at him. "Sorry, couldn't resist." He finished off a cookie. "There's a good way to remember bones and other systems, Jay. It's called mnemonics. You use words with the same starting letter to make a sentence that helps you remember the thing you're really trying to remember." At Jason's confused look he laughed again. "Okay, here's an example for the carpal bones. Eight bones, right? Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, harnate." Rob named them off without hesitation, and Jason envied him that ease of knowledge. But he also knew Rob had gained that ease the same way he was doing right now, by plenty of study. It was encouraging, if a little depressing too. It was sort of like seeing an enormous pile of dirt to be moved, and the only thing you had to move it was your bare hands. "The sentence you use to remember their names and the order they come in is 'some lovers try positions that they can't handle'."

Jason blinked. After a moment he thought he understood. "'Some lovers . . .'"

"' . . . try positions that they can't handle.'" Rob sipped some tea. "Now match up the names of the bones with the first letter of each word in the mnemonic."

Jason thought about it. He saw the sentence in his head. After a few moments the Latin names settled in above the words somehow. "Scaphoid lunate triquetral pisiform—" He paused.

"Alphabetical," Rob said.

"-trapezium trapezoid capitate harnate!" Jason caught himself before he bounced up and down in his chair like a three-year-old. Rob nodded.

"Excellent. Now name the other five."

"First, second, third, fourth, and fifth metacarpals," Jason said quickly. Those were easy.

"Good. Give me all thirteen," Rob said. Jason did as he asked and felt a glow of pride at naming them all successfully. "Excellent. Now tell me how many bones there are in a baby's wrist."

The glow was doused by panic. "Uh—I don't know," Jason said, and hated the uncertainty in his words. "The—the same as an adult's?"

"It's a trick question. The answer is none," Rob said, and smiled when Jason frowned. "Babies are born with fewer and softer bones, Jay. They grow and calcify as the child gets older. That's part of how we can determine general age and gender from remains found in graves and also from body parts." He sat back with his iced tea, his gaze steady. "You'll need to know that too—how bones are formed as the fertilized egg turns into a zygote and then eventually a fetus, and then after it's delivered. Bones have stages, and so do muscles and nerves, veins and arteries. Everything changes as we grow up and get older. Nothing stays the same."

Jason thought about that as he took a cookie and ate it. "So what bones show up first?" he asked after the last bite. Rob grinned at him.

"Good question. Let's find out."

They were well into a discussion about bone formation in early childhood when House said from the doorway, "Thought you were working on the wrist." He stared at Rob, who stared back, apparently unfazed.

"He needs to know how things start out."

"True enough. Right now I'm interested in wrist bones." House turned his stare on Jason, leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. "Name 'em."

Jason gave the names without hesitation; the mnemonic was fixed in his mind now and would always be there. When he was finished House gave a brief nod.

"'Mnemonic'—from the Greek _mnemonikos_, 'to be mindful'," he said, and glanced at Rob, who offered him an innocent look. "Use what works to get the information in your head. Now show me where the bones are on a live model."

Jason had been practicing this part. He was better at visualization than almost anything else. He held up his left hand and pointed to each one as he named them. When he was done House straightened.

"Arm and shoulder next. You'll find out why you can't stick your elbow in your ear," was all he said, and went off to the kitchen. Rob gave Jason a slight smile, his gaze warm and friendly.

"Good work. All right, let's review finger bones one more time." He wiggled his own long set just to make Jason groan.

"Am I gonna be stuck with you for everything?" he wanted to know. Rob smirked.

"Better me than House," he said, and Jason knew he was right. Rob flipped the charts to illustrations of hands and pushed the copy of _Grey's Anatomy_ toward his student. "Okay, let's get started."

Two hours later Jason was on the way home with Mom, his tired brain buzzing with new knowledge. He felt both elated and scared.

"Rob says you did really well today," Mom said. "You've been working hard. I'm proud of you, Jay."

Her words warmed him, made him feel happy deep inside. "Thanks," he mumbled. Mom chuckled and ruffled his hair gently. "_Mom_ . . ." He really didn't mind it all that much, but he felt a protest was necessary all the same.

"Can't help it, you're too irresistible," she said as she always did. "You need a haircut!"

Jason rolled his eyes. She always said that too. "House says I should learn about magic," he said, to get her off the subject of his hair.

"What kind? Magician magic, most likely," she said. Jason nodded.

"Yeah. He says it's a good thing for a diagnostician to know." He hesitated.

"What is it?" Mom asked softly.

"I don't like magic," he said. "It's . . . it's a lie. It's fake. It's deliberately fooling people. Why would someone want to do that? Why should I know it if I want to be a doctor who diagnoses people? Aren't doctors supposed to find out the truth about someone who's sick and then tell them so they can get better? I don't understand." The words spilled out before he could stop them. At the end he looked away, ashamed of his outburst.

Mom didn't speak right away. "Well, technically you're right—that kind of magic is a lie. But it's also a skill, called sleight of hand. And I think the reason why House wants you to learn about it is because diseases are often quite good at their own version of sleight of hand."

"You mean, they can fool you," Jason said slowly.

"Yes, exactly."

"But how is pulling a rabbit out of a hat supposed to help me learn more about disease?"

"Magic is based on misdirection," Mom said. "You think you're seeing everything the magician is doing, but he or she is using your ignorance or presumption to fool you." She pulled Minnie Lou into their driveway. "Gene still has some of his old magic library from when he was your age. I bet he'd let you borrow some of the books to read."

"Sure," Dad said at dinner. "You can read my books. Milbourne Christopher is a good place to start. I have _Panorama of Magic_ and _Magic Book_, you'll like those."

Jason ate some chicken. "Do you know how to do magic?"

Dad smiled a little, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah."

"I've never seen you do anything," Jason said.

"I don't, not anymore." Dad pushed some green beans around his plate. "When I was in the military . . . the kids where we were deployed, we'd make friends by sharing food and joking around. Magic is a great way to break the ice." He was silent a moment. "Most of those children were refugees. They'd never known anything like a stable life with three meals a day and a roof over their heads, and nights without gunfire and terror. But when you showed them the simplest tricks, for a few seconds they got to be just kids." He speared a green bean. "Since then, I haven't . . . haven't done magic."

"'msorry," Jason muttered. Dad looked over at him and managed a smile of sorts.

"Hey, not your fault." He glanced at Mom, then began to eat. Jason got the feeling it was more because he knew he had to. Mom gave him a look made up of equal parts worry, love and sadness, but said nothing.

After dinner Dad went into the office and came out with a couple of books. He sat next to Jason on the couch and handed them over. "Would you like to read them together?" he said. Jason looked at him. Dad returned his look, his gaze steady.

"This is just some weird thing House wants me to do. You don't have to help if it's—it's gonna bother you," Jason said.

"It's all right." Dad put his hand on Jason's shoulder for a moment, then gave him a pat. "We can start the first chapter of _Panorama_ tonight, after we finish the last chapter of_ The Face in the Frost_."

"Okay, cool."

It was much later, after the reading was done and the house was quiet, when he moved through the shadows in the stealthy way he'd learned from years of avoiding trouble, that he saw Mom and Dad on the couch in front of the fire. Dad lay stretched out, his head in Mom's lap. They were talking softly, so softly Jason couldn't make out what they were saying; but as he watched, Dad turned his head so that his face pressed into Mom's belly. Even in the dim light it was possible to see he was trembling. Mom eased down so that she half-lay, half-sat with him. She put one hand on his back, the other on his head, and held him to her. She had that same look on her face from dinner, only now, as Jason watched, a tear spilled down her cheek, the track gleaming in the dying firelight.

Jason stood there for a few moments, then went on past the bathroom and outside, closing the door behind him soundlessly. He traversed the back part of the yard, ignoring the cold dew on his bare feet. It wasn't the first time he'd peed outside due to the need to be invisible, and anyway, he had a warm bed waiting now. He could handle a little discomfort.

It was a clear night, the moon already risen, yellow as butter in a sky full of stars. They winked and glittered above the trees, their soft presence strangely comforting. Jason stared up at them, aware of several emotions banging around inside his heart, demanding attention: anxiety about Dad, annoyance too, a dark fear that this would change everything for the worse somehow, and behind it all, a love for both of his parents so deep and strong it hurt—and yet it was a good pain somehow. He drew in a lungful of cold night air and held it, let the mild ache take his attention until a soft rustling noise off to his right put him on alert. With caution he lowered his gaze and turned his head.

About fifty feet into the yard a doe stood watching him. In the faint moonlight she was barely more than an outline, but Jason saw the nervous flick of her ear as he moved, her big dark eyes fixed on him. When he stayed where he was she lowered her head and sniffed the grass, took a tentative taste, then moved to the side a bit—neither farther nor closer. Her hooves made no sound. Jason watched her, enchanted. He stood there, his feet freezing, as she drifted into the main yard toward the garden. She'd have no luck with the new plants; they'd put in a fence a couple of weeks ago, when they'd sown the first crops of lettuce and radishes and broccoli. Still, Jason felt the crazy urge to go back to the kitchen, get some carrots and offer them to her, the way he did with Mom's horse, Blackie. He snorted under his breath at the idea. At the soft sound the doe's head came up, ears raised. And then she was gone, silent as the starlight, with only a faint trail in the dew to mark her path.

"Wicked," Jason whispered, and shivered. He turned and made his way back to the house, almost chilled through but filled with quiet amazement at his encounter.

When he came into the mudroom, it was to find Mom there waiting with a clean towel. Wordlessly she knelt down and wiped his feet dry, then stood and put her arms around him, brought him close gently. Jason burrowed into her warmth, felt her kiss the side of his head—all she could manage, he realized with something like astonishment; he was taller than she was now. He returned her embrace, the love he felt for her and Dad welling up inside. On an impulse he didn't really understand, he buried his face in her soft curls. They stayed that way for a long time.

"Thanks," Mom said after a while. She drew back a little and smiled at him.

"Is Dad gonna be okay?" He had to ask, no matter what the answer was.

"Yeah, he will be. Just had some old memories get stirred up. He'll talk to Prof about it tomorrow—well, later today." She rubbed his back. "It's all right, Jay. You didn't do anything wrong. This is just part of living with someone who spent time in the military." She patted him gently. "It's late, sweetheart. You should be in bed."

"Are _you_ okay?" He had to know. Mom didn't answer right away.

"I think so," she said finally. "It hurts me to see him or you in pain because of the past, because there isn't much I can do—"

"You do a lot," Jason said. He fought the words, but they came out anyway, just as they had done earlier in the day. "You make this place home." He winced at how stupid that sounded, even if it was the truth.

"That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me," Mom said after another brief silence. Her voice was strange, as if she was trying not to cry.

"You sound sad."

Mom made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. "No, not sad." She gave him a fierce hug that managed to be tender for all its strength. "I love you, Jason Goldman. My beautiful boy," she kissed him again, then let go. "Off to bed now. Big day ahead."

He lay in bed for a while, trying to make sense of his day without much success. At last he gave up and just let the images move through his mind, like the shifting colors and shapes in the kaleidoscope House kept on his desk, until at last sleep stole him away into the dreaming, starlit darkness.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like anatomy charts-you can never have enough :)**_


	22. Chapter 22

**_(This is the first part of chapter 22. I came down with a really nasty cold last week and it wiped out my writing time completely; I just managed to start writing again on Sunday, and then only in fits and starts, with naps in-between. I'll post the second half of the chapter on Thursday, since that will give me a little more time to get it written. Anyway, I haven't done a cliffhanger ending for a while, so here you go. ;) _**

**_Btw, there really were tornado watches (and tornadoes) in this area last week. I'm taking a bit of creative license, but since this story is set in the general vicinity of the areas that got hit, it was too good to resist. _****_Enjoy, and look for the second half on Thursday-B)_**

_May 31st_

_4:30 p.m._

It's been a hell of a day, both indoors and out. Greg pulls Barbarella into the shed and shuts down the motor, aware he's sweating and more than ready to get out of his jeans and shirt and into cutoffs and a clean tee. They'd used the air conditioning for the first time at the clinic too, and while he's not thrilled about how that will dramatically increase the electric bill, the cool dry air still felt good. It'll feel good tomorrow too, when they sit down to choose a new round of patients. Singh's case was diagnosed just that morning—Lowe syndrome. They sent the patient and his family home with recommendations for treatment—immediate cataract surgery to help preserve what normal eyesight might still be possible, keep an eye on the kidneys, and appropriate physical, occupational and speech therapies to encourage as much growth as possible. It's a tough diagnosis—there are years of difficulties ahead for the patient and his family: the boy will experience loss of muscle tone and weak bones resulting in endless fractures, mental retardation and behavior problems and seizures, glaucoma . . . But at least his parents know what they're up against now.

_Not that it matters since he'll eventually end up like the rest of us—six feet under. But at least Mom and Dad have an idea of what's coming and they'll deal with it. They're decent parents as idiots go, _Greg thinks, and gets out of the car.

The kitchen is still relatively cool, since it's shaded by the big tree in the back yard; still, the oppressive humidity is making itself known even here. Greg dumps his stuff in a chair and heads to the bedroom. As he lopes across the distance he becomes aware how easy it is to move, no hesitation, no pain—just an ache, not much more than the usual soreness he feels after a good walk or when the weather's changing. He pauses for a moment, puts his hand on his right thigh, feels the smooth skin and muscle under the denim. Just in the last week he's been cleared for taking up running, at long last. The trial doctors in Pittsburgh are jubilant at his recovery—hell, they're acting like it's the greatest thing to happen since mini-skirts. Maybe later tonight, when it's cooled off a little, he'll go on his maiden voyage. With that heartening thought he decides on a shower too. He can always take another one later, after he and Roz have made satisfyingly sweaty love.

He's in the bedroom putting on the tee shirt when the phone rings. He frowns at the number, then answers. "What's up, blondie?"

"House, where's Sarah?" Laynie sounds so unlike her usual cheerful, bouncy self that Greg blinks.

"How the hell would I know?" he snaps. "I live here, she lives across the field. No spy cameras set up yet."

"I tried calling the house but no one answered. You haven't checked the weather for your area, have you?" Laynie's words are tight, anxious. "Go online and look."

She's serious. Greg frowns again. Without comment he goes into the office and boots up the computer, goes to the Weather Channel site. After a few moments of reading his eyes widen.

"You can't be fucking serious," he says.

"It's unusual but it's been known to happen now and then," Laynie says. "Right now it's just a tornado watch, but it's gonna fire up shortly and it looks like things might get bad. You guys have a safe place, right? A basement or a storm cellar?"

Greg can't help a disbelieving laugh. "Jorgesen, come on!"

"I'm not kidding!" Laynie snaps. She sounds ferocious. "Go over and make sure Sarah knows and then all of you be ready to get someplace safe! Don't fuck around with this, Greg!" She hangs up on him, something she's never done before to him anyway. So she's definitely serious, and he probably should do as she asks.

He finishes dressing and goes over to the Goldman place, to find the kid sitting at the dining room table, poring over anatomy charts for shoulder and neck bones while he does in a plate of apple slices. "I need either one of your parental units," Greg informs him. Jason peers at him, reluctance warring with curiosity.

"Mom's in the garden and Dad's doing barbecue," he says. "What's going on?"

Greg doesn't bother to answer, just moves past him out into the back yard. Sarah's in her garden, but she's not working. She's leaning on her hoe, squinting up at the sky with a frown on her face.

"Jorgesen called," he says. "Thought you had the yard ape trained to answer the phone."

Sarah turns to him, surprise replaced by—not alarm exactly, more like instant concern. "We just got home," she says quietly. "Jason took the afternoon off school to go to Albany with me."

"You got your license renewed," Greg says. He feels an odd sense of disappointment. Sarah's expression softens in a slight smile.

"McMurphy said you were finishing up a case, or I would have invited you to go with us," she says. "Missed you, son."

He won't acknowledge this gesture, even though he knows it's genuine. "The blonde one says we're gonna get tornadoes."

Sarah looks at the sky again, then turns her gaze to the horizon. "Y'know, I wondered earlier this afternoon . . . Conditions are right," she says slowly. "It's hot enough and the dewpoint's way up . . . plenty of shear in winds aloft . . ."

"Oh, you and your technical terms," he mocks, but now he's worried because _she's_ worried. He falls silent. Then, "Roz is out on a job."

"Call and tell her to get home now," Sarah says. Her voice is calm but it makes a shiver of disquiet go through him.

"I'm only ten minutes from home," Roz says when he calls her then and there. "And I'm almost finished. Is it really supposed to be that bad?"

Without answering he hands the phone to Sarah. A brief but pithy conversation ensues. When it's done she gives the phone back to him. "She's on her way," she says. "We need to make sure the animals are safe."

"I'm not wrangling cows."

"They're better off out in the field, actually. But we'll need to make sure Blackie's all right." She shades her eyes to look at him. "What would you think of having my celebration dinner at your place?"

"Not my call," he says. "Run it by the wife."

Sarah nods. "Fair enough. She'll be here shortly."

"You're that worried?" He has to challenge all this concern.

"Yeah," Sarah says simply. "I am." With that she takes the hoe along to the tool shed and then goes into the house.

An hour later, under lowering skies, the big dinner has been transferred over to Greg and Roz's house. "This is kinda nice," Roz says as she puts a bowl of greens on the table. Greg raises his brows, even as he steals a bite of potato salad.

"It's stupid," he says, more harshly than he intended. "It's a big panic over nothing."

Roz's smile fades. She doesn't reply, just turns away to get something else out of the fridge. Now he's hurt her feelings. A bubble of anxiety rises up inside him. He watches her to see what she'll do next.

"I think it's a good way to also celebrate your being okayed to run," she says quietly, and puts a big bowl of fruit salad on the counter. Greg stares at her, surprised.

"How'd you know about that?"

Roz turns to look at him with what he recognizes as amused exasperation. "You've only been talking about it every day for the last two weeks." She opens the silverware drawer and begins taking out spoons. "I'd thought about taking you out for dinner, but this came up instead." She turns her back on him to get something else. "Maybe we could do a rain check on going someplace." With that she opens a cabinet door and goes on tiptoe to get another bowl. The sight of her shorts pulled tight against her small but shapely ass takes his mind off everything but stealing away with her to the bedroom and riding out the storm in a very literal way.

"Maybe," he says, and is astonished when his voice doesn't squeak, both from lust and worry. Roz puts down the bowl and turns to look at him.

"What is it?" she asks softly. When he doesn't answer she comes to him, to stop a foot or so away. "Tell me."

"Nothing," he mutters. She moves forward that last little bit and slips her arms around his waist.

"Liar," she says, and tilts her head to study him. He shifts his gaze away from hers, scared she'll see too much. "Oh . . . I get it. Yeah, you did hurt my feelings a little. But you didn't mean to, did you?" She leans in and nuzzles him gently.

"If you want a coherent answer you won't get it that way," he says against her hair.

"It's all right, _amante_," she says, and those words are sweeter than he'll ever admit to her, or himself. They stand there together and enjoy each other's closeness until a loud stage cough from the back door catches their attention.

"Making out in the kitchen," Gene says. "Nothing better." He opens the screen and comes in.

"Try knocking sometime," Greg snipes.

"I did, twice." Gene flashes his pirate's grin. "Brought over some barbecue and other good stuff, you better let us in."

Sarah and the kid show up a few minutes later, laden down with containers and bags. There's a feast on the harvest table now: chicken and hamburgers, several salads, cornbread and the last of the previous year's strawberry jam, and a luscious-looking sheet cake with a couple of half-gallons of ice cream to accompany it. Roz has white wine ready to go, and Gene brought cold beer.

"If we're gonna have a storm, might as well bring the beer to the fraidy hole," he says, an attitude Greg can't help but admire.

Sooner rather than later they've got everyone supplied with plates, and the serious business of filling them up begins. Jason piles his high with every goodie in sight; he's shot up again, taller than Sarah now and able to look Roz in the eye. Greg watches the shoulder seams of the kid's tee shirt strain against his muscles and knows it won't be too terribly much longer until the boy is as tall as he is. It's an unsettling thought, so he sets it aside and snags a cheeseburger, some potato salad and cornbread slathered with jam, and a beer. As he sits down he sees Hellboy is already making the rounds, brushing up against legs and chirping in an obsequious manner. It gets him what he wants: tidbits of chicken and hamburger, mainly. Greg smirks at the sight and wolfs down a huge bite of burger, savoring the smoky taste. Aspiring pyromaniac Gene might be when it comes to grilling, but damn, he's good at it. Greg chews and swallows as Sarah comes in with what looks like an old-fashioned transistor radio. Without a word she sets it on the counter and turns it on. Immediately the thing crackles into life—not too loud, but with enough volume for the words to be understandable. Of course everyone knows what it is—a weather radio. No one comments however. Sarah picks up her plate and fork and starts working on dinner. Gradually the conversation picks up again, but this time there's a slight edge to it. They're all waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"I understand we're also celebrating your being cleared to run," Sarah says eventually. Her sea-green eyes shine with affection and pride. "That's excellent."

"Where are you gonna run out here?" The kid wants to know. Greg stares at him.

"Roads are useful that way, _duh_," he says with considerable sarcasm. Jason turns red but doesn't back down.

"Yeah, I know," he says, "but there are no streetlights. If you run in the early morning or at night, no one's gonna see you."

"Hence the reflective tape on my running gear," Greg says.

"Wait till he finds out I wrote 'WIDE LOAD' on the back of his shorts," Roz says. Amid the general laughter she leans in and kisses his cheek. Her eyes sparkle with humor and that little bit of 'gotcha' that tells him he just paid for jabbing at her feelings earlier. The kiss softens it though, so he only mock-glares at her and takes a sip of beer.

About that time the weather radio comes to life. The mechanical voice informs them a tornado warning has been issued for the following counties. Theirs is on the list. Sarah gets up, sets her plate aside, and goes out into the yard. She returns a few moments later.

"I'm seeing mammatus," she says. This arcane remark is received with either blank stares or looks of concern. "We'd better put things away and get ready to hunker down. I'll go out and check on the cows and Blackie."

"We've got a whole cake and a bunch of ice cream to go through," Greg points out. "Might as well have some now before the apocalypse gets here."

"Okay by me," Gene says. "Let's get things cleared and have some dessert."

Greg watches Sarah leave quietly, slipping through the screen door. She heads off to the barn, head down, her strides unhesitating, just as the fire siren goes off in the village.

_To be continued!_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like grilled burgers-one is never enough :)_**


	23. Chapter 23

_**(Here's the second half of the last chapter. My apologies for taking so long to post it, I'm in the last stages of a bad head cold and had to take a recharge nap in the middle of writing. :) Anyway, here 'tis and I hope you enjoy. -B)**_

Sarah strode to the barn, glancing up at the sky as she went. Conditions were changing rapidly; she wouldn't have much time to secure things and check on the cattle and horse. She took a quick look back at the house, standing quiet and strong, much like the man who had lived in it before Greg and Roz. For a moment her heart ached at his loss; she set it aside and focused on the task at hand.

The barn was warm and close; the smell of old leather, manure and horse filled the humid air. Sarah found Blackie restless in his stall. She got an alfalfa cube from the treat bag hanging off the tack rail and went to him, offering up the goodie. He took it and submitted to her stroking his withers lightly as he munched.

"Big storm comin' up," Sarah said softly. "The cows are all right outside, maybe I'd better let you go out too." She flinched as a flash of lightning filled the window, and wasn't surprised to find her hands shook. When the thunder rumbled she hid her face in Blackie's neck, ashamed of her weakness.

"I hate storms," she whispered. It was something she'd never admitted to anyone, not even Prof. During every chase she'd been on with Laynie, buried miles deep under the elation of gathering data and videos and photos, she'd been shaking with fear the whole time. When the memory came to her unbidden, unwanted, she didn't try to push it away.

_She huddled in the back yard under the only protection available, the ramshackle dog house one of her brothers had built out of pallets for the stray puppy he'd found alongside the road. The dog was long since gone, a casualty of one of Dad's rampages; now she was too, kicked out into the oncoming storm for the high crime of annoying her father simply by existing, apparently. She'd curled up in a corner and watched the sky overhead darken, then turn that peculiar shade of green any midwesterner knows to be a sign of hail and strong winds on the way. _

_The hail had come first—a little shower of pea-sized ice that had fascinated and delighted her, initially. Then the big stones began to fall, fat golfballs that pounded the flimsy roof and bounced when they hit the ground. One of them smacked her in the shoulder hard and she yelped at the pain, tried to push even deeper into the dirty straw, but to no avail. And then it stopped. Rain fell and the wind began to pick up. Above the sound of both was a low, steady roar, a little like Mom's old sweeper. She sat there shivering, longing to run to the back door and see if it was unlocked, and knowing it wouldn't be. _

Sarah rose above the remembrance to find that same sound echoing the one in her memory. She moved away from Blackie and went to the door, opened it and looked out. A couple of miles or so across the pasture, woodlot and neighbor's vacant fields, a dark bank of wall cloud hung low, churning slowly. A cool wind blew with freshening eddies and gusts, tugging at her clothes and hair. As she watched a tendril began to form, slowly moving down. Sarah saw dirt rise into the air under the new funnel and felt her heart clutch. This was not a chase, and she wasn't documenting any of this; this was her home and family being threatened—the other side of the experience.

Another funnel was coming down now. "Multiple vortices," Sarah said under her breath. "Aw _shit_." She turned toward the house and knew if she left the barn now she wouldn't be able to come back. It sure as hell wasn't safe to stay here with all the implements and tools stored on the walls; even knowing that, she couldn't bear the thought of abandoning her friend. But her family had to take precedence. She hurried back to Blackie and opened the stall door. "I'm not gonna leave you in here," she said fiercely, and led him outside. The big horse whuffled and snorted and shook his head. Sarah smacked him lightly on the neck. "Go on," she said loudly, and watched him head off into the field. When she looked at the funnel it was bigger now, darker with condensation, and headed in her general direction. She took off for the house, going through the barn because it was a shorter route, and got to the door in time to get slapped in the face with the first circulating rain band on the outer edges of the tornado's rotation. _If I run I could make it to the house_, she thought, and nearly jumped out of her shoes when the transformer between houses exploded with a huge blue-white light that temporarily turned day to night by comparison. She scurried back into the barn and slammed the door shut, then tried to find the safest place.

It ended up being Blackie's stall, ironically enough. She grabbed a thick horse blanket and the beat-up saddle she used and burrowed under both into the straw piled against the wall, next to a couple of thick support posts, shaking as the winds outside grew louder. If the funnel hit the barn her chances were minimal, but it was the best she could do. _Here we are forty-odd years later and back in the same circumstances,_ she thought. _At least this time no one locked me out of the house._ The sound of leaves and other light debris hitting the side of the barn drove her deeper into the straw; she wiped sweat out of one eye and resisted the urge to push back the blanket and look out. And then she felt it, the change in pressure as the funnel came near. She clasped her arms over her head and said out loud "Go away!"

"_Go away!" she yelled above the noise of the wind. Her shoulder hurt so much, and the straw was itchy and wet and smelled funny. She wanted to be inside with her brothers, under the blanket fort they'd built the day before. It was nice in there, not like this. She sniffled and wiped her nose on her hand, and then clapped both palms over her ears as they popped. Leaves and pieces of paper and all kinds of other stuff she couldn't identify hit the side of the dog house and her too, where the walls and roof gaped open. A big piece of wood went flying by and she lay down, her heart pounding with fear. And then there was no noise, just a sort of blankness. She felt her body lift up from the ground and scrabbled to hang onto something, anything. Her fingers dug into the dirt and found something that felt like a big hard rope, but she couldn't get her hands around it. She hung on anyway and kept her head down. Her stomach and legs bounced up and down a few times, and then something heavy crashed through the dog house and pinned her to the ground._

"Sarah."

Dad stood there, watching her. He looked the way she remembered him from her early childhood, tall, a little paunchy even then from all the beer he drank, and a tangle of red-gold curly hair framing his face. She tried to stand up to him, tried to bring her fists up and defend herself, but somehow she couldn't.

"My born fighter." He smiled a little, but there was a silent, distant sadness in his eyes.

"Get away from me!" she yelled at him. "What the hell do you want, anyway?"

"For you to live."

"Hah! Bullshit liar. You never gave a fuck one way or the other. Tell your lies to someone else!" She could feel heat rushing up inside her, anger and fear and something else. Dad looked away.

"Guess it's natural you'd think that." He returned his gaze to hers. "'I'm no angel,'" he sang softly, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

"Damn straight. More like the opposite," she spat at him, but something inside her wanted to cry at the pain she saw alongside that strange sorrow in his expression. She both hated and pitied him, when all she wanted was to feel nothing at all.

Dad smiled a little. "Still a fighter. That's good." He stepped back into the shadows. "See you around, short man."

The old nickname stung her. "Go _away_!" she yelled at him, and put her head down, exhausted. She felt something break loose in her that made her whole body convulse. After a few moments a curious sense of lightness stole over her. It was impossible to define or understand; she gave up and let the darkness take her.

" _. . . Sare?"_

_Matt stood looking down at her. His face was a funny white color, and there were tears leaking from his eyes. She sat up slowly, aware her shoulders and head hurt and she saw what seemed like little lights dancing wherever she looked. _

"_What happened?" She wiped her face and her hand came away with red color on it. She stared at it, fascinated._

"_The tornado . . . it busted our house." Matt sounded strange, like he was choking. "We got nothin' now__,__ Sarah. It's all gone."_

_She frowned. How could a whole house get busted? They were too big. "You're lyin'."_

"_No I'm not! Look!" He pointed behind him. She squinted, trying to make her eyes focus. All she could see was a big pile of stuff where the house used to be. She stared at it. A sudden fear filled her._

"_Mommy and—and Dad . . . are they busted too?"_

"_No." Matt sniffled and wiped his nose. He looked mad. "I wish the house was still okay and they were the ones that got broke, though."_

_She didn't know what to say to that, and anyway, her headache was getting worse. She lay down and closed her eyes. She thought she heard Matt say her name, but she just didn't feel like answering him._

_The next thing she knew, she was in the car on the back seat, and Matt sat next to her. Mommy and Daddy were talking quiet, not loud like they did most of the time. She caught a few words here and there, but she didn't understand them._

"_Can't take her to the downtown ER, we been there too much already this year, they'll start askin' their questions, damn nosy shits . . ."_

"_Shoulda let her in, she's just a baby, she didn't know no better__.__ Stop leavin' your damn weed out where the kids can get into it.__"_

"_Little brat needed a two by four upside her head anyway. Born fighter, no fear in her__.__"_

_She tried to stay awake, but the seat was soft and she was tired, so she let herself drift away into the friendly, welcoming dark__._

"SARAH!"

She opened her eyes to no light and something heavy pressing down on her upper body. Frowning, she pushed at the weight but it wouldn't move. About the same time she became aware her arm ached in a really weird way that was all too familiar. _Broken_, she thought with a sort of muzzy resignation. _How'd that happen?_

"Sarah! If you can hear me, yell!"

That was Gene. He sounded frantic. She drew in a breath, tasted dust and what might be blood, and tried to answer him.

"Gene."

"Sarah? _Sarah!_ Keep talking!"

"Gene . . ." She licked her lips and realized she'd bitten her tongue somehow. "Gene, I'm okay. Under . . . under the horse blanket . . ."

"Dad! She's over here!" That was Jason. He was very close. Even as she thought it, the heaviness slowly lifted away, and then the blanket was folded back and both her husband and son stood over her.

"Don't move," Gene was saying. "Greg's on his way, he's gonna look you over to make sure you're okay before we take you to the medical center." A moment later fingers touched her cheek. "Jesus Christ on a goddamn piece of toast, Sarah Jane. I thought . . . thought you were gone." His words shook.

"How bad was it? The—the tornado." She quailed at the answer she might get, but she had to know.

"The funnel turned and brushed the back side of the barn, then tore up a bunch of pasture before it lifted. Nothing else got hit. Everyone's all right and the houses are fine, just a few shingles off and some tree branches and wires down. Transformer blew, it was quite the light show." He stroked her face, a light, gentle touch. "Leave it to you to be in the worst place possible."

She wanted to laugh but her arm was beginning to ramp up the pain. "Glad the house is okay. Did you all get to the basement?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "Mom, I saw it. I saw a real tornado." He sounded both freaked out and awestruck. Sarah managed a smile.

"Something to talk about in school next week," she said, and closed her eyes. "Did—did Blackie and the cows make it through okay?"

"The damn livestock is fine, which is more than we can say for you, you idiot." A different voice, one she knew well. "Sarah, open your eyes. Come on, do it."

With difficulty she forced her eyelids apart. Greg knelt beside her. He leaned in and shone a light in first one eye, then the other. "Pupils equal and reactive," he said, and reached in to take her pulse, then examined her from head to toe. "Arm's broken and you've got a big lump on the back of your head," he announced at last. "Anything else hurt or feel numb?"

"A little headache," she said. Greg checked her head again.

"Good thing your noggin's made of granite," he said. "It's likely concussion but I doubt it's anything worse." He touched her cheek, then took his hand away. "When we move you it's gonna hurt."

"I know," she said on a slight sigh. "'sokay."

After that she drifted in and out of awareness—not unconsciousness, she was just tired and couldn't be bothered to pay attention to what was going on. It did indeed hurt like hell when they took her out of her makeshift shelter, and the ride to the center wasn't much better. She turned her face a little so it pressed into Gene's leg, and kept it like that until she was lifted onto a gurney and taken into the cool brightness of the ER bay. Rob Chase leaned over her, his expression one of worry and affection.

"We'll take good care of you. You just relax and let us do the work," he said softly. To her surprise he bent down and kissed her cheek. "Had me scared, Mum. You're not allowed to do this ever again."

Two hours later she was arguing with her oldest boy about staying overnight. "The place is already full," she pointed out. "I'll just be taking space someone else could use."

"Shut up. You're staying." Greg folded his arms and glared down at her. His bright blue eyes glittered with annoyance and a reluctant amusement that almost hid his anxiety. "Concussion, remember? I'm not taking any chances."

_Mommy and Dad, are they busted too?_ The memory of that plaintive question, the fear that spurred it, stopped her from making a heated reply. Greg's brows rose.

"That's a first," he said. "You self-censored. What were you gonna say?"

She didn't answer right away. "I saw my dad," she said finally. Gene took her hand in a gentle grip.

"What did the old bastard have to say?" he said quietly.

"Don't encourage her," Greg said, but it was plain he was interested despite his protest.

"He said he wanted me to live." She snorted and winced when her broken arm and various abused muscles let her know that movement was off-limits from now on. "Still a liar."

"Well, for once I have to agree with him," Gene said. "How about you lie back and get some rest, okay?"

"Where's Roz and Jason?"

"Bringing you a treat." Gene offered her another sip of ginger ale. "I'm stayin' here tonight. So's Jason. Diane said it's okay, most of the patients will be cleared out by midnight and there should be a room open. We can sleep in chairs, it won't kill us for one night," he said when she opened her mouth to object. "And before you start tellin' me what to do, the horse is already taken care of and so are the cows. There's some repair work that needs to be done to the barn and the houses but it can wait. Hellboy's just fine, he's got a bellyful of extra dinner and is sleeping it off on the couch. So no excuses. We're staying."

The treat turned out to be what was left of the sheet cake, along with the ice cream and some cookies. "Electricity's off for a while so we might as well do all this in now," Roz said with a smile. She brought over a hospital table with a plate full of cake and ice cream.

So Sarah ate a little cake and half-melted ice cream and watched her family stand guard around her while they talked and laughed and demolished the rest of the goodies, and thought _not busted . . . not busted_, before exhaustion stole her away into sleep.

_'I'm No Angel,' Gregg Allman_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like pieces of cake-you always want more :)_**


	24. Chapter 24

**_(This is another chapter I've decided to split in half, mainly because I'm still sleeping more than writing at the moment. The second half will be posted on Thursday. -B)_**

_June 7th_

_11 a.m._

Sarah waited while Gene unlocked the door to her practice. After a moment he opened it, stepped aside and gave her a little bow. "All yours," he said with a smile. She walked in and stopped in the middle of the room, did a slow turn to take it in.

"Could you open the window for me please?" she asked. Gene entered and did as she requested.

"I'm sure Pastor Ron wouldn't mind if you put in a small air conditioner, as long as you pay the extra amount on the electric bill," he said as he placed a prop under the sash to hold it open. "It's gonna get stuffy in here on hot days."

"Yeah." Sarah went to the desk, sat down behind it. The chair was comfortable and supported her nicely; it was Gene's gift to her on the renewal of her license.

"What else would you like?" Gene chose one of the visitor's chairs and gave her an appraising stare.

"Well . . ." She glanced at the window. "Maybe a plant or two."

"And a coffee station. With a tea option, of course." Gene tipped the chair back a little. "We could get a cube fridge, like Diane's. You could keep real cream and your lunch in it."

"When my arm's out of the cast I'd like to bring in my guitar."

Gene nodded. "Maybe two. I'm sure your oldest boy will stop by to torment you, you might as well distract him with something besides cookies."

"Guess we'd better add a cookie jar." Sarah settled into the chair a bit more. She was still sore in places, but felt better for getting out of the house for a while. She looked up as someone came to the door, thinking it was Pastor Ron.

"Oh, this is completely charming," Prof said. He beamed at Sarah. "I come bearing gifts! May I be allowed to enter?"

Sarah blinked. Then she was on her feet and headed for him, to be gathered and enfolded gently in long arms. She heard Gene say something, felt the rumble in Gordon's chest as he replied, but didn't bother to discern the meaning of the words.

Eventually he guided her back to her chair, then pulled one of the visitor's chairs to her side and took her hand in his. "My poor girl," he said softly. "Are you all right? What on earth happened?"

She knew he was asking about more than the storm. "I don't know," she said, and it wasn't an evasion. "I . . . I don't know."

"Well, shall we find out then? I love a good mystery."

Sarah felt a laugh bubble up. She squeezed his hand. "I saw my dad."

"Now now, no skipping immediately to the juicy tell-all parts," Prof said with a mock-stern look, though his gaze held humor and concern in equal measure. "Begin at the beginning, dear girl."

He listened without interruption as she told him the whole sorry story, stumbling over her words and struggling like some patient new to the whole process. At one point she stopped, unable to go on, anger and sorrow welling up inside her.

"Take your time," Prof said softly. "Slow and steady, Sarah Jane, that's the ticket."

"I . . . I see the parallel between the two experiences," she said finally. "But why . . . why would I see him as a . . . sympathetic figure?"

"You mean, why would you see him as a father," Gordon said quietly. "Because that's what he was, and still is. Granted, a very bad one, and that may well be the understatement of the century. Still, it's quite true all the same."

"He was never . . ." Sarah tipped her head back. "Maybe when I was just a toddler . . . I remember cuddling with him, and . . . and he sang to me . . ." Her heart squeezed hard at a vague memory of lying contented and sleepy on a broad chest, a strong arm holding her close, and the smell of whiskey on his breath as he sang an old song his mother had undoubtedly taught him. _He could sing_, she thought in muted surprise. _I forgot he had such a good voice, at least before the smoking and liquor took it away._

"You fulfilled your part of the bargain. You loved him unconditionally. He loved you until his feelings got in the way of his self-interest, or became inconvenient for him."

"Inconvenient . . ." She swallowed and felt tears well up. "Anyone who got in the way of his booze and drugs was inconvenient."

"Exactly." Gordon was silent a moment. "Why do you think he killed himself with addictive substances?"

"He was self-medicating," Sarah said. The words came out flat, angry. "He was the scapegoat in the family structure. Oldest son can do no wrong, second oldest can do no right." She stopped, then went on. "But I've known a lot of second-borns who went on to have good lives! Why—" She stopped again.

"Why couldn't he do it?" Gordon sighed softly. "Having never interviewed your father except through your own reminiscences, I can't give you a factual answer. But I can make an educated guess, and it is this: he simply wasn't strong enough. Some people just aren't, you know. He acknowledged that, in an oblique sort of way."

"How so?" Sarah asked, intrigued despite herself.

"He admired the one quality in you he didn't possess—your formidable ability to fight against all odds." Gordon's clasp tightened gently. "I believe you can take that as an expression of the love he felt for you and couldn't honor."

"I don't want to think of him as human," Sarah said after a long silence.

"My dear, you've already begun the process of seeing him that way. When you visited your home state and expended a great deal of psychic energy and emotional turmoil atop your father's grave, that started the journey. Now you're at a great fork in your path. You may continue to view your father as a monster incapable of anything resembling human feeling, or . . ." Gordon leaned toward her a little, his gaze steady. "You may gather your courage and allow yourself to realize that he was a deeply flawed man who was scarred and stunted by the lack of love he was never given, a man unequal to the task of making a warm and nurturing home and raising children therein."

"So what do I get if I choose the second option?" Sarah snapped. She knew she was being childish, but she was angry and, if she cared to admit it, scared. Terrified, in fact. "I've already said it was all bullshit."

"Saying it is one thing. Taking it into your heart and mind and accepting it, that's quite another," Gordon said softly. "You know what it means."

"It means I have to forgive him."

"It means you begin the process of forgiveness, which is really for you anyway. Your father's dead and gone, it won't affect him one way or the other. Thankfully, you are still very much alive and in need of the healing which redeeming your father will bring you."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, then stared at the ceiling. "But if I do that . . . it changes who I am," she said, and tried to stop shaking. Here it was, what lay at the base of everything she did, everything she'd accomplished, for many years-maybe for all of them. "I've made my life about not being him, not—not letting him win. If I take that away, what's left?"

"Sarah . . ." Gordon raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back, above a yellowed bruise. "My beautiful girl of the auburn curls, you are so much, much more than simply not your father. Once you understand that, there will be no stopping you."

They sat in the morning quiet for a while. "When do you have to go back?" Sarah asked at last.

"I'm yours for the weekend," Gordon said promptly. "As lovely as this charming office is, I suggest we retire to your home and settle in for the duration. You'll be much more comfortable there. Ah, but I'm forgetting something!" He took out his phone and speed-dialed someone. "Bring it on," he said in a mysterious tone, and ended the call as he flashed a grin at her.

Two minutes later Gene appeared in the doorway, cradling a bottle of what looked like champagne, and their best picnic basket complete with wine flutes. Sarah's eyes widened. Behind him was Greg with a box full of dipped strawberries, several of which he'd already sampled, if the gaps in the orderly rows was any indication. Next came Roz with a desk lamp in hand. Behind her was McMurphy with two hanging plants, Chase with two guitar cases, and Jason bearing a wrapped present.

"What . . . ?" Sarah said, at a complete loss. She stared at her youngest son. "What are you doing out of school?"

"It's _okay_, Mom. Dad cleared it with my homeroom teacher. I have all my homework done and it was just boring English this afternoon anyway." Jason went red at the chuckles his comment received, and put the present on her desk. When he would have retreated, Sarah sat up a bit.

"Come here please," she said softly. He came around the desk, looking defiant and worried. She gave Gordon's hand a little caress before she let go, to stand up and offer Jason a hug. "I'm glad you're here," she said, and kissed his cheek. Jason rolled his eyes but didn't move away.

"Gratuitous nausea, what a great way to kick things off," her oldest son said. "Can we get this hootenanny in gear? Some of us do have important work waiting."

"You're such a liar," McMurphy said with a smirk. "I finished your paperwork this morning and the current patient is going through tests. Shut up and hand over those strawberries before you eat them all."

Amid much joking and laughter the champagne was opened and poured; even Jason was given a small amount, much to his astonishment. Chase and McMurphy were the exceptions, making do with sparkling water. The contents of the basket was set out—crackers, cheese and some of the mango chutney Sarah had made the previous summer—and plates distributed.

"I'd like to propose a toast," Gene said, and held his glass up. He looked at Sarah, his lean features creased in a smile. "To Sarah Jane Corbett Goldman. May she find healing in every way possible, and may her practice prosper and spread that healing to every patient she sees."

They all drank to it, even Jason, who finished the mouthful in his flute with an expression of both distaste and curiosity. Sarah was made to sit once more and given a plate loaded with tidbits, put on the desk so she could use her good hand. She munched and enjoyed the talk and closeness of friends and family around her. _Something Dad never really had,_ she thought, and felt a little stir of unwilling sadness deep inside.

In due course the plants were hung in the window, the lamp set up on the desk, the guitars placed with care, and the present unwrapped to reveal art supplies—her favorites, colored pencils and pastels with several sketchbooks. "I thought you might like them," Jason said shyly.

"I'll draw something special for you," Sarah promised, even as a wave of tiredness swept over her.

"Time to move the party to the house," Gene said. "Everyone pair up with your designated driver."

A short time later they were at home. Sarah settled into her pillows and closed her eyes, felt someone sit next to her in the easy chair. After a moment lean fingers touched her wrist—taking a pulse, she knew, and smiled.

"Don't you look like queen for a day," Greg said. He released her and sat back, blue eyes bright. "Enjoying all this disgusting pandering, no doubt."

"Yes," she said, and chuckled when he rolled his eyes. "Hey, I'm allowed."

"Lot of work just to get some attention." He sat back, watching her. "How'd it go with your shrink?"

"Tough." Her amusement faded. "This is hard. I don't know . . ." She sighed a little. "Think I might have hit my limit."

"Bullshit." It was a perfect imitation of her accent. Greg's vivid eyes sparked with knowing humor and just a hint of affection. "Get out of your own way, Goldman."

"Aw dammit, that's not fair," she said, but couldn't stop the smile he'd created.

"Heh." He studied her for a moment. "Get some sleep. The way you look now, you'll scare off any patients within a ten-mile radius." He leaned forward a little. "Don't you ever pull a stupid stunt like that again, or I'll dig you out of the rubble and finish the job myself."

Sarah blinked. "You wouldn't."

"Would too." Greg stood, then bent down and kissed the top of her head. "Greasy carrot frizz, _nice_. You need a wash, but for now you need sleep more," and he walked away. Sarah watched him for a few moments, her smile widening a little. Then she did as she was bid, and let her tired mind sink into rest.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like glasses of champagne,more's always welcome :)**_


	25. Chapter 25

**_(Here's part two. Many thanks to all who have reviewed anonymously and/or favorited the story; I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. -B)_**

_June 7th _

_5 p.m._

Greg knows his wife is in a good mood when he comes into the living room after a snooze on the couch and hears music playing in the kitchen, and she's singing along. Usually she's very careful to hide her utter lack of talent, though he's made it plain he doesn't mind; actually she's much better now than she was before he gave her lessons, so he can take pride in her progress if nothing else.

So he sneaks up to see what she's doing, and there she is in her cute little cutoffs and tank top, singing away to 'Girls Talk' while she works on a salad. She's really into it, swinging her hips as her long legs move in perfect time to the thumping, poppy beat. He takes in the sight in mute appreciation, arms folded as he leans against the doorjamb, and remembers the year the song came out; he was first year pre-med and heard it at some mixer party, where half the room wore checkered Vans and black pork pie hats along with black tee shirts and drainpipe trousers. Roz would look adorable in a pork pie hat, but he's not going to suggest it to her because she'll raid his closet—

"You gonna help or stand there staring at my ass for the rest of the afternoon?" She's watching him now, vegetable knife in one hand, a cocky little smile on her lips even though her cheeks are a bit flushed. Greg straightens.

"I'm not doing anything until you put down that knife," he says. Roz's smirk widens.

"Make me," she sneers on a laugh, an attitude he finds irresistible. Slowly he approaches, reaches out, slides his hands over her hips, brings her close. She puts the knife on the counter and mirrors his action, but her palms come to rest on his butt. She looks him right in the eye while she cops feels, her green eyes sparking in a silent dare edged with amusement. So he takes her up on it. He brings her close and kisses her, hands moving up under her tank top to cup her breasts, thumbs rubbing gently over her nipples as they harden. She moans right into his mouth, a low, sweet sound that has him hard in moments.

They make love there, deep, slow thrusts that have both of them clinging to each other when it's done. She steals another kiss, nibbles his bottom lip, whispers '_ti amo_' and holds him like he's something special. Under his hands her slender body feels lithe and strong and alive.

"We're taking dinner over to Gene and Sarah's," she says eventually.

"The Brit knows how to cook. So does Gunney." He nuzzles her temple. "The yard ape could make PBJs for a month and his mother would be thrilled to death."

"Greg . . ." The laughter threatening to spill out around the edges of her voice makes him feel a curious sense of lightness. "We're taking dinner over."

And so they do, after a lengthy hot shower and a change of clothes. With Hellboy in close attendance, they walk the lane with a salad, cold chicken and dessert—chocolate angel food cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. The sun is beginning its long, slow summer descent from a cloudless sky; it's warm but not uncomfortable.

He will never admit this to anyone, but that first moment in his first, best home is something he always anticipates. He feels welcome, safe, known. It's irrational, he knows; there it is all the same. Today the house is full of music playing from the kitchen—Rich Delgrosso groovin' on 'Shotgun Blues'—and the smell of fresh-cut grass; Goldman and the kid were busy this morning. Roz takes the container from his hand.

"Go find your mom," she says with a smile. "I'll get dinner started."

Sarah is in the office with the Brit. The door's propped open just a little, no doubt to provide airflow. Greg eases up in near silence and stands just within earshot.

" . . . propensity for impulsivity," Wyatt's saying. "What I'd like you to think about is the reasoning behind the action, my dear. You have endangered your life on a number of occasions, and not just within recent memory."

There's a little silence. "I haven't," Sarah says. She sounds defiant and anxious at the same time. "I mean—'endangered' is—is a strong word—"

"Endangered," Wyatt says mildly. "It's the right word. What I want to know is what you think about that idea."

"I don't do it on purpose."

"Hence the use of the word 'impulse'. But you and I both know impulsivity comes from a deeper source, a belief so intrinsic it feels like truth."

Another silence. "You think I think I'm worthless."

"Now now, my dear girl. Such tactics do not become you." Wyatt makes a tsking sound. "Tell me what _you_ feel and think."

Sarah sighs, and Greg has to suppress a chuckle. So, she's just as bad as everyone else at trying to wriggle out of tough emotional territory during a session. "I don't know."

"Take your time."

The silence lasts a full minute. Then, "What comes up is . . . my life doesn't matter if someone needs help."

"Indeed." Wyatt sits back, if the creaking of the leather chair seat is any indication. "Doctor House, perhaps you'd give us some insight into Sarah's statement?"

_Busted_. Nothing to do but cop to it. Greg pushes the door open and encounters a full-on glare from his shrink. Her eyes don't go emerald green the way Roz's do when she's irritated or mad; instead they turn a sort of stormy grey.

"Don't let me interrupt," he says.

"Too late." Oh, she's annoyed all right. "So give us your pearls of wisdom, Siggy."

"Well, since you asked . . ." He props himself on the door frame. "Your parents set the bar on this one by treating you like you were expendable, no doubt." He gives her an inquiring look. She says nothing, just continues to glare at him. "They convinced you you're worth less than the people around you. That makes it easier to pull idiotic maneuvers like pushing a kid out of the way of a car, or taking on a drunk sociopath with a gun." He watches her carefully. "And this latest disaster."

She battles with admitting he's right, he can see the struggle in her expression. It is this quality, this ability to fight old programming and accept truth, that encouraged him to work with her in the first place back in Mayfield. It keeps him working with her now.

"Okay," she says at last. He can barely hear her. "Yeah, okay." It's hurting her to admit it, but she does it anyway. And then suddenly there are tears slipping down her cheeks. "_Why?_ Why didn't they want me?" The pain and confusion in her voice is heart-rending. Greg stands there, unable to go to her, but unwilling to leave. After a moment the Brit takes over. He glances at Greg as he gets to his feet.

"Close the door behind you, please," he says quietly, and it's clear he expects to be obeyed. If it was anyone other than Sarah, Greg would defy that command without thinking. Slowly he moves back. The last glimpse he gets is of Sarah curled up on the Brit's lap, her face buried in his chest with Wyatt's arms around her, holding her with great care. Right before the door shuts she makes a noise, a little broken sound, and Greg retreats with all haste to the kitchen, where his wife is holding court. She smiles at him when he comes in, but her smile fades.

"What is it?" She comes to him, Sarah's apron tied over her clothes and a potholder in one hand, the very picture of reassuring normalcy.

"When do we eat?" he asks, avoiding the question.

"Half an hour or so. What's up?" She tosses the potholder on the counter and puts her hands on his arms, rubbing gently.

"Nothing," he mutters, but leans into her touch. They stay that way for a few moments.

"I could use some help," Roz says at last. "If you don't want to hang out here, you could get Gene and Jason, they're at the barn practicing."

That's as good an excuse as any, though he's well aware all he has to do is call Gunney. He takes it. "Back shortly," he says, and heads off.

The barn is jumping when he gets there. Sounds like father and son are working on something together, and making a pretty good job of it. "Extra credit for music," the kid says when Greg inquires. "If I get enough points ahead, I can choose jazz band instead of general practice." He runs a rag through his instrument and packs it up with a skill that bespeaks plenty of hours put in. "And I can get private lessons."

Greg makes a decision to scope out the band teacher. If the guy's a dud, he'll do something about getting the kid a decent instructor. He looks over at Goldman, who gives him a little nod; clearly they're thinking along the same lines.

It doesn't take long to walk back to the house. The shadows are lengthening now, starting to stretch across the back yard; the air carries the fragrance of the herbs in Sarah's garden. Some broken tree limbs have been stacked next to the wood pile, to be stripped, broken down and stacked to season; no doubt there's a similar pile in his own yard, waiting to be processed.

Roz is taking down plates when they come into the kitchen. The kid goes off to put his stuff away, while Goldman comes over to help Roz. Greg occupies himself by choosing a piece of chicken to taste-test, as if he hasn't done that half a dozen times already today. He's about to reach in when someone puts a hand on his arm. He knows who it is without looking. They stay that way for a moment, and then Sarah gives him a little squeeze before she moves on to get some glasses out of the dishwasher.

They have dinner outside on the back porch. Citronella candles glow and flutter everywhere in the soft light of late afternoon; the talk is relaxed, full of jokes and laughter. Roz sits next to him, chatting with Jason, who manages to take in an astonishing amount of food and flirt at the same time. The kid's got skills that will come in handy later in life, definitely. Sarah looks the worse for wear, especially around the eyes, and Goldman sticks close to her, but she participates in the conversation. The Brit is the same as always, his sly but good-natured sense of humor on display. Hellboy is perched on the back of Wyatt's chair, taking proffered bits of chicken with lordly dignity.

So they linger over glasses of wine and iced tea after dessert is served, while day slowly turns to night and the first stars arrive to join them. Eventually they take the gathering inside, and when the hour grows late they part ways, with Greg and Roz and the cat leading the way, walking back to their place through the perfumed, warm darkness.

_'Girls Talk,' Dave Edmunds (cover of the song by Elvis Costello)_

_'Shotgun Blues,' Rich Delgrosso_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)_**


	26. Chapter 26

**_(Many thanks to all who have reviewed my story. _**

**_One anonymous reviewer wanted to know if I believe anyone has happy childhoods because of the number of people in this 'verse with tough early years. I do believe people have lovely childhood years, yes. I even have a few friends who had delightful childhoods. :) There are characters in the story having great childhood years-Chelsea Butterman is a good example, as are her parents and grandparents undoubtedly, and I suspect Jay Lombardi, Poppi and Mandy Faust would all say they had good parents and/or good early years. The main group of characters had tough years, yes. But it does illustrate the way in which they've created their own strong and loving family out of brokenness. _**

**_Again, thanks for reviewing and also for the support over the years, it's very much appreciated. -B)_**

_June 12th_

_2 p.m._

Jason hopped off the bus and waved to the driver, then went up the drive and around to the back door. He unlocked it and entered, dumped his stuff in the mudroom and hurried into the kitchen. The weeks ahead stretched out with one delightful theme stamped on every day—summer vacation!

Mom had left a note on the counter next to the cookie jar, and Jason grinned at the sly poke of humor—she knew where he'd go first.

_Hey handsome!_

_There's a sandwich in the fridge along with some fresh strawberries, eat those before you do in six cookies (JUST 6, and that means S-I-X). Gordon's upstairs taking a nap if you need an adult to help with anything. We should be home by 2:30 or so. I love you! _

_Mom_

He tucked the note in his pocket and went to the fridge. The sandwich was pretty good, thick with leftover pot roast and lettuce, cheese and mustard on Mom's homemade bread, so he ate it, along with two large helpings of chips and the strawberries, grabbed a half-dozen sugar cookies from the jar and poured a glass of iced tea, then went into the office and booted up the computer. No more homework—at least from school, though his anatomy instruction with Rob would continue through the summer, and he'd have private music lessons too. The thought made him smile. He was really looking forward to those; they'd be hard, but he'd learn a lot.

His inbox held a couple dozen emails, about half of them from Mandy. He didn't know why she bothered to email him when they saw each other almost every day, and texted when they were apart; it was probably because she was a writer and couldn't help herself. Anyway, he'd answer the messages later.

On that thought he left his cookie stash to finish off after he put on a clean tee shirt and cutoffs, added Mom's note to the box, and took his laundry to the mudroom. He and Dad would wash everything tomorrow so they could hang stuff out on the line instead of using the dryer. Dad was taking a month's vacation to help Mom out with getting back and forth and work around the house. It was great having him home, because they got to spend more time together too.

"Now that I'll be working soon, Dad won't have to be away so much," Mom had explained at the family meeting they'd had the night before. Jason understood what she was saying, but he'd lain in his bed in the soft, warm darkness for a long time after that, wishing there was some way he could help out money-wise. He was fourteen after all, almost fifteen. There had to be something . . .

Jason paused, a cookie halfway to his mouth as inspiration struck. After a moment he set aside the cookie and picked up the phone. His hands were trembling a little as he hit speed-dial. "Hey Poppi Lou," he said when the call was answered.

"Jason," Poppi said. He sounded pleased. "What's up? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine, but I have a question for you."

"Okay, ask."

"I—could I work for you?" He winced at the way the words came rushing out.

"Well," Poppi said after a pause. "What brought this on?"

"I'd just like to help out with things at home," Jason said. His palms were sweating. "Mom and Dad have to work too hard. I'm—I'm old enough to work. And I'd like to learn how to cook from you," he said, determined to be honest. "I can make simple things, but I want to know more. You're a good cook, you could teach me if—if you think it's okay."

"I see." Poppi was silent a moment. "You do chores, right?"

"Yeah, but that isn't earning money." Jason swallowed down rising anxiety. So . . .what do you think?"

"Tell you what. You talk with your parents about this first. If they say it's okay, you all come in tomorrow, and we'll talk." Poppi sounded calm, reassuring.

"Okay. What time?"

"Well your mom usually comes in around ten, so why don't we make it that time. If she and your dad want to talk to me before then, that's fine. All right?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Poppi." Jason ended the call and sat there, aware that he was scared, happy and anxious all at once. He picked up the cookie and bit into it. He wasn't sure Mom and Dad would see his idea as a good solution, but he had to try _something_, even if they said no.

"Hey, we're home!" Dad called from the living room. Jason stuffed in the rest of the cookie and went out to meet his parents.

After Mom was settled on the couch for a nap, Jason went out to the barn with Dad to practice. He loved everything about this time—the walk, the time alone, the chance to make music together.

"You're pretty quiet for just getting out of school for the summer," Dad said as they walked down the access road. "Deep thoughts?"

Jason hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should talk to Dad about his idea without Mom, but he didn't think she'd really mind. "Yeah, I guess."

"Wanna talk about it?" Dad opened the back door and held it open for Jason.

"I'd kinda thought I'd talk to both you and Mom about it, together."

"Okay, well how about you give me a one-line synopsis and we'll go from there."

Synopsis—Jason knew what that meant from long association with a friend who wrote incessantly. "Okay." He took a breath and plunged in. "I'd like to work and earn some money to help out you and Mom."

Dad didn't say anything right away. Jason glanced at him as he set up his case and opened it. The expression on the older man's face was thoughtful, a little concerned. He caught Jason looking at him and offered a slight smile.

"I think you're right. We should wait to talk about this with Mom," he said. "Let's find something new to play, since band is done for the summer. I brought some charts with me, let's take a look."

They had a good practice. Dad didn't mention the topic of work again, but Jason had the sense he wasn't ignoring it, just setting it aside for now. It was respectful, something Jason appreciated.

"Is Mom okay?" he asked on the walk back to the house. Dad glanced at him.

"She's working with Prof on some old memories she finds painful. It makes her anxious and a little touchy at times."

Jason thought about it. "Okay." He heard the uncertainty in his voice and winced.

"Give her time. She's healing from some deep wounds, and that takes a while. It's not a steady process, and it hurts." Dad switched his guitar case to his other hand and put his arm around Jason's shoulders, gave him a little hug. "She loves us, remember."

Jason leaned into Dad's embrace just a bit. "Yeah, I know."

"Good. So what's on the agenda for tonight? I thought maybe we could grill some hot dogs and hamburgers and do s'mores after."

"Dad . . ." Jason sighed, but inside he was smiling. "Mom's right, you are a pyromaniac."

"Yeah, but in a good cause," Dad said, and flashed Jason a grin. "If we add a salad Mom will say it's okay."

They looked over the garden before going into the house. "Needs weeding," Dad said. "We can work on that after we hang out the wash." He handed Jason the guitar case. "Take this in for me, please. I'll get the grill started."

Jason rolled his eyes but did as Dad asked. When he came into the kitchen, it was to find Prof making a cup of tea. The radio was on, playing classical music.

"Ah, the estimable Jason!" He extracted a teabag from the canister and put it in Mom's favorite mug. "I see your father is determined to tame fire and roast our supper over the coals tonight." He shook his head. "You Americans and your fascination with bonfires. It always comes as a surprise that you don't celebrate the fifth of November."

"He just likes to mess around with the grill," Jason said. "At least he's only burned some hot dogs and a couple of steaks. And a tee shirt, but that was an accident."

Prof laughed. "Well said, young man, well said. How may I contribute?"

"You could make the hamburgers and get the—" Jason searched for the word. "You know, ketchup, mustard . . . that stuff."

"Condiments," Prof said in a helpful tone.

"Condiments," Jason repeated. "Thanks."

"You're most welcome, Jason. Very well, I'll put all the bits and bobs together and have them ready for your father." He took the kettle from the stove and poured boiling water into the mug, added sugar, stirred and placed it on a small plate, along with two cookies. "Why not walk your instruments to their proper places and then deliver your mother's cuppa? I think she'd enjoy seeing you."

Jason did as requested, to find Mom in the office talking with Laynie. She looked tired and it was plain she'd been crying, but the smile she gave him was genuine. "Hey," she said, and took the mug when he offered it to her. "Sit with me for a minute and say hi to Laynie."

"Hi Jason," Laynie said. She looked weird, and then he realized she'd been crying too. "Last day of school today, right? Gonna celebrate?"

"Sort of," Jason said, and hated the inevitable tide of red sweeping over his face. He pulled a chair over and sat down, hoping his blush would cool off. "Dad's cooking on the grill."

Mom sighed. "That man and fire. I think he almost loves that grill more than me."

Laynie smiled. "You know that's not true." She hesitated. "Let him take care of you, Sare. He needs to do that."

"I know. And I will." Mom leaned back into the chair. "Gonna yell at me some more or do you have it out of your system now?"

Jason glanced at the screen, startled. Laynie yelled at Mom? But they were best friends . . .

"I've said enough." Laynie's voice was quiet. "You scared me, Sare. I'm sorry I got noisy, but you needed to hear it."

"I understand." There was a faint edge in Mom's voice, but mostly she just sounded tired.

"Still want me to visit?"

"Oh, don't be silly. Of course I do," Mom said, and the edge was gone. "You're staying a full week too. Who knows, maybe you'll even get to chase while you're out here, the way things are going."

"Now don't you start," Laynie said, but she was smiling. "All right, I'll check in on you in a couple of days. I'm on the way to Nebraska, got some big storms poppin' tomorrow."

"Safe travels. Love you," Mom said. "Thanks for caring enough to bitch me out."

Laynie shook her head. "Always," she said, and to Jason's agonized delight, blew him a kiss. "See you later, sweet boy."

When the Skype connection was shut down, Mom removed the teabag from the mug and took a long sip of steaming brew.

"Why did Laynie yell at you?" Jason asked finally. Mom moved a bit to face him.

"She was upset by what I did," she said. "It's all right, we worked it out."

"You mean, what happened with you in the barn."

"Mm." Mom took another sip of tea. "She was right to yell at me. It's just . . . at the moment, it hurts more than it would normally."

"Dad said you were working on some old stuff with Prof." Jason watched her carefully.

"Yes." Mom set the tea on the desk and settled into the chair. "Does that worry you?" She reached out and took his hand in hers, gave it a little squeeze.

"Kinda," he said, determined to be honest. "But Dad said it's helping." He paused. "Is it?"

Mom made a funny sound, not quite a groan or a sigh, a little of both. "Allegedly." She gave him a slight smile. "Just kidding. Yes, it's helping. It's the kind of work that doesn't show up right away, though. It takes a while."

"So you and Prof will keep talking about it."

"That's how therapy works, Jay. Like you and your therapist. You take off a layer or remember something, it leads to other things. Right?"

Jason nodded. He suddenly wanted some comfort, but knew Mom was still sore in places. As she did so often with him, she seemed to read his mind.

"It's okay," she said softly, and moved her chair closer to his, then brought him over so he could rest his head on her shoulder. He draped himself with care around her cast and sling and closed his eyes.

"I was scared for you too," he said. Mom brought her hand up to his hair and tucked a lock behind his ear, a familiar gesture.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I did a really stupid thing. I'll try hard not to do anything like it again."

They stayed that way for a while, not speaking, just happy to be close. Jason heard Prof puttering in the kitchen, humming along with the radio, and Dad outside shaking down the coals. Homely sounds, Prof called them. Jason wished this moment could go on forever.

"Happy last day of school," Mom said after a while. "Maybe we can convince Dad we should go into town for ice cream."

"We have some in the freezer."

"Yeah, but it never tastes quite the same as the soft-serve at the Frosty Boy." Mom rubbed his arm gently. "Waffle cone and fudge sauce with chopped nuts . . . sound good?"

"Mm-hmm." His stomach rumbled and Mom chuckled.

"Growin' like a weed and eatin' like a horse," she said, and Jason felt the love in her words. "Ice cream it is, then." She kissed the side of his head. "You did really well in everything this school year, _mo ghile mear_. Your Dad and I are so proud of you."

Jason squirmed at the praise. Still, he couldn't help but feel happy. "Mom . . . I got a C in English."

"Did you work hard to get that C?" He nodded. "That's what matters. You've made a lot of progress in grammar and spelling." Jason said nothing, delighted and mortified at the same time. Mom tugged gently on his ear. "You'll just have to be embarrassed, because I'm going to tell you every chance I get." She kissed him again. "All right, let's go help Dad before he burns his jeans this time."

They had hot dogs and hamburgers, none of which got charred, and salad as well as grilled potato wedges.

"Jason would like to talk to us," Dad said after dinner was done and they were cleaning up. Mom looked at Jason with an inquiring expression.

"What's up?"

"I believe I should take myself elsewhere," Prof said. "I do have a phone call or two to make, a task easily accomplished out of earshot." He smiled at Jason and exited the room. For such a big man he could move quietly when he chose, a fact that never ceased to amaze.

Once he was gone, Jason faced his parents. He was nervous now, and hoped his voice wouldn't crack. "Um . . . I . . . I'd like to get a job. To help out," he added. "I asked Poppi Lou about working in the kitchen this summer. He said we should talk about it, and if it was okay with both of you, we can talk to him tomorrow." He hesitated, then went on. "You can have the money. It'll pay for my clothes and maybe a little of some of my other expenses."

Mom didn't say anything right away. "We don't expect you to pay for those things," she said finally. "That's our responsibility. But if you wanted to contribute a percentage to the household budget, I think that would be okay." She looked at Dad, who nodded.

"Sounds fair to me." He gave Jason a steady look. "You're sure you want to do this? It's gonna cut into your free time, and you're already working with Rob and about to start music lessons."

Jason nodded. "I'm sure."

"We can talk with Poppi about a trial period, if he's agreeable," Mom said. "Two weeks to see if you can work together, and for you to find out if it's too much with everything else you have going on." She smiled a little. "What time do we go with you tomorrow?"

Once everything was settled and the kitchen cleaned up, they headed off into town. Prof opted to go with them. "Always up for an adventure," he said, beaming at them. "I've never tasted—what d'you call it, 'soft-serve'?—in any of my travels."

When they reached their destination, it was to find quite a few people there with the same idea. The soft evening air was filled with laughter and talk, the shouts of kids running back and forth, and the smell of hot fudge and caramel.

Soon enough they were sitting at a picnic table with Mandy and her mom. Mrs. Faust was chatting with Prof while she worked on a banana split. Jason was surprised to see Mandy actually eating a sundae—a small one, but it had everything on it, including whipped cream.

"Mom and I decided to splurge," she said when Jason asked her. "It's a special occasion. You and me, we're freshmen now." She smiled at him, her dimples flashing. "I'm already on the newsletter team."

"Figures," he said, but he returned her smile.

"How about you? Gonna join any clubs?" She tilted her head a little. "Maybe chess. I bet you'd like that a lot."

Jason stared at her. Her words reached him, but he was too busy thinking _she's beautiful_. "Um," he said, flailing around for the right words. "Yeah—I guess."

"_Chess_," Mandy said, her impatience plain. Her face brightened. "Doctor House and Roz are here!"

It was hard to miss them; they made quite an entrance, with Barbarella burning rubber at the end of the street, and loud music playing. Mom rolled her eyes. "He just loves being eternally sixteen."

"'My pappy said "son you're gonna drive me to drinkin'/If you don't stop drivin' that hot rod Lincoln,"'" Dad said, and laughed when Mom shot him a look. She was amused though, Jason could tell by the way her laugh lines showed around her eyes.

It didn't take long for House and Roz to join them. Roz sat next to Jason, with House on her other side. She had an extra-large twist in a waffle cone, with chocolate sprinkles all over it—the same thing he'd gotten. "Great minds think alike," she said when she took a seat next to him, and Jason felt his face heat up.

"Or something." House took a bite of his chocolate-dipped cone. "No more pencils, no more books." He glanced at Jason, then away. "You had a good year."

Jason was surprised at the comment. "Yeah," he said with caution. House's compliments usually came with a snarky sucker punch.

"Enjoy it now. High school's a bitch with brass ovaries."

"_Amante_," Roz said quietly, and took his hand in hers. "Tonight's a celebration." She smiled at Jason and Mandy. "You both did great work this year."

"Yeah yeah, shmooze 'em so they'll work with you when school starts," House grumbled, but he subsided when Roz gave his hand a little squeeze.

"Did I hear someone mention chess?" Prof leaned in a bit, his expression one of intense interest. "Mandy, may I presume you wish to be taught?"

Mandy looked surprised, then thoughtful. "You know, I would like to learn," she said slowly. "I probably won't be much good at it, though."

"Tut tut, now that's no way to start off! Everyone begins at the beginning with games of strategy." Prof took another bite of his cone. "I must say, this stuff is quite oddly yummy. At any rate, I would be more than delighted to instruct you in the basics, as well as anyone else who would like to learn."

"Can you teach _me_?" House asked wistfully. Prof gave him a stern look, his lips twitching.

"Dissembling jackanapes. Undoubtedly you could strategize rings around me, just as you and your charming wife did whilst playing pool at the local watering hole last night."

Roz chuckled. "You won the last game."

House snorted. "He cheated."

"Upon my word, I did no such thing! Indeed," Prof said, all indignation. "I'm perfectly capable of calculating angles as well as the next person."

Jason listened to the adults bicker. He understood now they were teasing each other, but he still found it a little weird.

"Hey," Mom said. Jason looked over at her. "It's okay, you know."

"Yeah." He ate some half-melted ice cream and savored the cold, creamy sweetness. "I'd like to learn chess," he said. "Just for fun."

"Excellent!" Prof smiled at him. "Both you and Amanda may start tomorrow, if Anne is agreeable."

"Anatomy comes first," House said. He gave Jason a hard stare.

Jason nodded. "I know," he said simply. He made sure his medical lessons had priority above everything else, even music, because he liked it that way. Only Mom and Dad and Mandy were more important, and that was contingent—contingent, he really liked that word—on circumstances.

"Good." One corner of House's mouth quirked up for a moment. "Don't make me remind you."

"I won't."

House gave him another look, but this one was a little less baleful. "Huh," he said, and that was the extent of their conversation that evening.

Eventually they were on their way home. Jason watched the familiar lights of various houses and farms go by. They even passed his old house, but he didn't really pay much attention to it the way he used to; it didn't seem all that important now, though he would never forget what happened there. Now it was just . . . history. His history, to be sure, but something he'd gone through, and wouldn't have to endure again.

"Got a lot to do tomorrow," Dad said when he came in to read the chapter. He settled by the bed and put a hand over Jason's for a moment, light and comforting. "Proud of you, son. You've done well."

The words, and the warmth they created deep inside, followed Jason into sleep.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like chocolate sprinkles-more is always better :)**_


	27. Chapter 27

_June 17th_

_12:17 p.m._

Roz parked her truck a few spots down from Poppi's place and shut off the motor. Her work day was over a few hours early for once; she needed a free afternoon, and today was a glorious sunny dry day with a clear blue sky overhead. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd end up doing, but as long as it wasn't work she was fine with it.

She made a quick stop at the post office to pick up a package; their mail carrier had left them a slip on Friday. The postmaster handed it over with a smile and a casual "How's it going?" They chatted for a few moments, and then Roz headed to Poppi's for lunch. She glanced at the return address and paused, startled to find Blythe House's name there; the address read 'Mrs. Gregory House'. Roz tucked the package under her arm and continued on her way.

Her grandfather was in the back of course. Jason was with him, wrapped in a clean apron, watching as Poppi showed him how to prep a basic salad. Roz felt a wave of nostalgia at the sight. Poppi done the same thing with her when she'd come to live with him and Nana, introducing her to their world step by step, conquering her shyness and fear with kindness and patience.

"Tear the lettuce, don't cut it. Cutting makes the edges brown faster, and you don't want your salad to look like a machine made it." Poppi glanced at Roz as she came in. "Hey _'bina_," his smile warmed her. Jason looked up, then back down again.

"Hey," he mumbled, but at least this time he didn't blush.

"Welcome to Poppi's kitchen," Roz said, smiling. "I'll get my own lunch, okay?"

"Of course it's okay, you don't have to be polite," Poppi said with a chuckle, and handed Jason the rest of the lettuce. "Now let's see you do it."

Roz watched Jason master the art of basic salad construction while she got the makings for a pizza. It was the work of only a few minutes to get the dough ready, spread it with a third the normal amount of sauce, a little olive oil, some parmesan, and twice the cheese. She loaded half of it with pepperoni, sausage, ham and fresh oregano; the other half she covered with veggies and fresh basil. She slipped it into the oven and put a batch of onion rings in the fryer, checked the orders waiting to be filled, and took out her phone.

"You're in town," Greg said when he answered. "That means you can buy me lunch."

"I'm already at Poppi's," Roz said. "Be here in fifteen or lose out." She heard him chuckle as she hung up.

She took advantage of the interval between the call and Greg's arrival to help with orders. They were almost caught up when her husband pushed open the swinging door. "You're keeping me waiting."

"You just got here," she said, amused at his attempt at provocation. "Let's sit at the back table."

When she brought out the pizza she was pleased to see his face brighten. She'd left the onion rings in long enough to get them about one level below scorched—the way he liked them, she knew. Fresh iced tea completed their meal. Greg slapped the plates in place, grabbed a slice of pizza and took a huge bite. He eyed the box placed on the seat next to her. "Wha's inna p'kige?" he said around the food.

"I don't know," Roz said, and sipped her tea. "It's from your mom."

Greg chewed slowly, watching her. He swallowed and slugged down some tea, then took an onion ring. "From my mom," he said.

"I don't know what it is," Roz said again. "We'll open it at home." She said it in a casual tone and was pleased to see some of the anxiety leave his expression.

"She probably cleaned out my old room and found a pile of dirty socks." He ate the onion ring and grabbed another.

"_Yum_," Roz said, and took a slice from her side of the pie. Greg wrinkled his nose at her.

"Veggies," he said with contempt. Roz laughed.

"You're so full of it. Onions are veggies, in case you hadn't noticed."

"They're properly encased in a delicious coating of batter and fryer grease, the way nature intended. They don't belong on pizza." He ate another onion ring. "You want to open it."

"At home," she said, and put a gentle emphasis on the second word. "It can wait. Right now I'm eating lunch with my guy."

"Your _guy_?" He mocked her, but she saw the pleased gleam in his gaze.

"Well, that's what you are," she said in a reasonable tone, and stole an onion ring. She bit into it and savored the caramelized crunch. "Mmm . . ."

The light in Greg's eyes deepened, darkened. Roz licked her lips and ate the rest of the ring. When she reached for her iced tea, Greg beat her to it. He lifted the glass and guided it to her mouth. Roz sipped and kept her own eyes lowered.

"Minx," Greg said, but there was a little breath of admiration in the word. He set the glass down with a thump and picked up his pizza. "Get a move on. I have a sudden urge to test our mattress."

"Why? It's not new or anything," Roz said, hiding a smile.

"I say we tear it up so we have to get a new one." Greg took an enormous bite of pizza and waggled his brows at her. Roz nibbled the tip of her slice.

"I always have to eat my lunch in a hurry," she said. "I'd like to take my time today."

"We can take our time with something else."

"Oh, really? What would that be?" Roz paused. "I do have some library books that need to go back. I don't want to pay a fine."

Greg swallowed and leaned forward. "No." A smile tugged at his lips. "We go straight home from here."

"I do. You have to work."

He sat back and looked smug. "I'm the boss, I can take an afternoon off."

Roz shook her head. "Slacker."

"And proud of it." He slugged down some iced tea. "Let's box the rest of this up and finish it later."

"We just sat down," Roz pointed out, and ate another bite of pizza. "Anticipation's half the fun, you know."

Greg opened his mouth to reply and frowned instead, looking over her shoulder. "What's the kid doing here?"

"Working with Poppi." She sipped her tea.

"He's got other priorities." The flat tone slapped at her. She did her best not to flinch, but knew she hadn't been able to cover it completely.

"He can study and work in the kitchen too," she said quietly. "I did."

Greg switched his gaze from the doorway to her face. After a brief silence he reached out, took her hand in his. It was a hesitant movement, his touch light, tentative, as if he was afraid she'd pull back. She clasped his fingers with hers and saw his throat move.

"Well, if it has your personal seal of approval, then there's nothing to worry about." Despite the mocking tone his glance flickered to hers, then away. She gave him a little squeeze, accepting the mute apology.

"Poppi will make sure he studies," she said. "School always comes first." She smiled, remembering. "I used to do my homework in the back, between helping with prep work and filling the sodas and iced tea. I loved it. All the bustle and Poppi and Nana close by, for some reason it helped me focus. I felt . . ." She paused, trying to find the words.

"Safe," Greg said. She nodded.

"Yeah." She smiled at him. "Let's box the rest of this and go home."

"Hmm . . ." He tilted his head to look down his nose at her. Roz caught her breath at the faint teasing light in his eyes, his anxiety gone. "Sounds like a brilliant idea."

He got to the house a few minutes before she did, as usual. As she crossed the yard she could hear him in the kitchen, presumably talking to the cat. "Stop begging, it makes you look cheap. Anyway, I just gave you some pepperoni."

She pushed open the screen door. "Don't give him any more or he'll fart all night long."

"You mean _I'll_ fart all night long." He ate a pepperoni slice and stowed the box in the fridge, ignoring Hellboy's loud protests.

"Hey, I wasn't going to say anything, but since you brought it up . . ." She turned to put her toolbox under the table and felt Greg come up behind her. He slid his arms around her waist and brought her back against him. "I'm all dusty," she said, a little breathless.

"Don't care." He nuzzled her cheek. "But it's a good excuse to take a shower together." He nipped her earlobe. "Unless you have other plans."

She put her hands over his. "I'm in no hurry to open that package, so you don't have to test me. You, on the other hand—"

"I can wait."

"Liar." Roz turned in his embrace and looked up at him, brows raised. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"Oh, so this is all about being right." Greg rolled his eyes, but the dimples showed in his cheeks as he tried not to smile. Roz patted his back.

"Come on, let's find out what your mom sent. Maybe it's cookies."

It most decidedly was _not_ cookies. "Family photos," Greg said. He'd tightened up the moment the box was opened, the anxiety back. "Dammit."

Roz looked down at the album. "They're just pictures," she said quietly.

"They're a lot more than that. They're a guilt trip wrapped in plastic and enough sentimentality to make any thinking being nauseous." He gave her a hard look. "That's why she sent this to you. She knew I'd dump it, but you'd want to take a nice long walk through my so-called childhood."

"I'd like to see them, yeah." Roz touched the worn binding. "But not if it's some tug-of-war between you and your mother. I don't want to be in the middle of that." She started to fold the flaps over the opening. Greg reached out and stopped her.

"It's not—it isn't like that, not exactly." He fidgeted and looked away. "Not a tug-of-war . . . it's her trying to get me to think about what happened the way she does, as usual." He sighed. "She likes to pick and choose."

Roz nodded. "Mine is that way too. She ignores the bad times." She looked at her hands, then at him. "Doesn't leave much to hang onto."

"Yeah." Greg relaxed a little. He glanced at her, his gaze traveling over her face. "What if I said we just burn this without even cracking it open?"

"I'd be disappointed. But if that's what needs to be done, okay." She said it simply, without any emotional freight added. Greg stared at her, those vivid eyes intense, searching. Then he gave a short nod, reached in and lifted out the album. He handed it to her.

"Memory lane, here we come."

They ended up on the couch sitting side by side, after she changed out of her jumpsuit. Roz opened the album with care. A note fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and unfolded it. It was written in Blythe's rounded Palmer-script hand.

_Dear Roz,_

_I thought you might like some pictures of Greg's early years, when John's career was active and we lived in so many different places. He was just as handsome then as he is now._ _Enjoy and all my love to you and my boy-Blythe_

Greg closed his eyes. "Oh, shoot me now," he groaned. Roz leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"She's your mom, she has to say that. I happen to agree with her."

"_Jesus_." He exhaled loudly. "Can we just get this over with?"

For answer Roz turned the page. Several black-and-white snapshots were arranged around a printed birth announcement done in a delicate pastel blue with a tiny blue satin bow at the top, faded but clean and neat. The shots were of a baby wrapped in several layers of receiving blankets and clothes with a cap on his head, but Roz recognized that hostile squint under lowered brows.

"You haven't changed at all," she said, delighted. "Just a little less scruff, is all."

Greg rubbed a hand over his face. "That's not a compliment, is it?"

"Actually yes, it is." Roz kissed him again, a more thorough exploration this time. She was pleased to feel him relax under her touch.

The next page contained the usual photos of various relatives holding the baby. John was included, much to Roz's surprise. He had Greg tucked in the crook of his arm; it was obvious he felt comfortable holding an infant. His expression was more difficult to read.

"He knew," Greg said, and Roz heard the pain, buried deep beneath the hard anger.

"Look at the way he's holding you," she said softly. This was dangerous ground she was treading now, but she also knew it was time to explore it, to whatever extent her husband would allow. "I think maybe he felt . . . conflicted. He looks like he wanted you to be his son, despite knowing you never could be."

"He tried to make me his." Greg stared at the photo. "He did his best to indoctrinate me right from the beginning. Maybe he thought it was the only way to own me, since he couldn't claim my DNA." He turned the page. "There's the evidence." It was a shot of himself at a very young age, wearing what was clearly a Marine uniform made to fit him. He carried a ceremonial sword far too large to be part of the outfit, however. "I still have it—the sword. And his service revolver."

"I know." Greg gave her a sharp stare, startlement chased by suspicion. "When we moved here . . . I was putting boxes in the closet and a stack fell over when I bumped into them."

"You never said anything." The abrupt statement was accusatory, but she sensed he was testing her, waiting to see her reaction to _his_ reaction.

"It wasn't my business, they're your personal things. I just put them back." She touched the picture. "John must have been upset when you told him you weren't going into the military."

"If you want to know, just ask. Doesn't mean I'll tell you."

Roz chuckled and felt Greg relax once more. "When did you have it out with him?"

"Officially? Must have been about sixteen. But I knew long before then it wasn't gonna happen." He leaned forward, hunched over the album. "The military couldn't deal with me. No one could, but a whole hierarchy of anal-retentive control freaks guiding my every move would have been the ultimate hell for me and them too." He snorted and leaned back. "Dad said it would be a good experience, give me self-discipline, regulate my thinking processes. He didn't understand the first damn thing about me, never did. He saw me as chaotic, messy, uncontrollable, a disaster waiting to happen." He sighed. "Actually there's some truth to that view."

"That's his way to see things, but it's not the only way." Roz turned the page and paused. "Oh," she said. A smile curved up the corners of her mouth. "Oh, _look_ at you."

He was all of eighteen, tall and lanky, enveloped in a dark blue school gown over jeans and a polo shirt, mortarboard perched at a rakish angle atop chestnut curls, a cocky grin creasing his lean features. Blythe stood on his left, beaming at the camera; John was absent. There were several shots, including one of Greg tossing his cap into the air. Roz could almost hear him shout _FREE!_

"Huh." One corner of Greg's mouth slowly lifted just a little. "That was a good day. Done with high school, on my way to Johns Hopkins. The sky was the limit."

"Did you have an open house?"

Greg looked at her. "Did you?"

"I asked Poppi and Nana not to. It seemed stupid to invite people who didn't like me and probably wouldn't show up anyway, except for the buffet. So they gave me a dinner instead, from _primi_ to Poppi's San Marzano cake. It was the first time they served me wine—well officially," she said on a soft chuckle. "When it was done, they gave me a check to start my school fund." She rested her head on Greg's shoulder. "Best day of my life, back then anyway." She hesitated. "How about you?"

"We'd just moved back to the States a year before that and Dad was away. I didn't know anyone, didn't want to either—it was a base crammed full of military brats like me, as usual. I'd just left my only friend behind in Japan, and we both knew we wouldn't see each other again. That made it even less likely that I'd go trolling for someone to replace him." Greg exhaled softly. "So Mom made my favorite dinner and baked a cake and we called it good." Roz smiled as he brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. "Guess we have more in common than I thought. How long did it take you to save up for school?"

"Five years." She sat up. "I'll be right back."

When she brought out her own album Greg groaned. "Isn't one enough?"

"_Sta zitto_," Roz said, and plopped down next to him. She handed him the album. "Fair's fair."

Greg gave her a wry look, but he didn't protest further. Instead he opened the cover. Inside was a photograph—a tintype actually, held in a worn brass frame.

"Nana's grandparents," Roz said softly. "Just before they got married."

"You look like her." Greg turned the page. "Your grandparents on their wedding day."

Roz smiled. "Poppi and Nana, all dressed up. The rosary she's wearing is the one I carried in our ceremony. Her grandmother gave it to her, so it goes back a ways."

Greg made a noise in the back of his throat. "Superstition."

"I know, but it's still kinda nice." She ignored his eye roll and flipped the page. "There's me."

He looked over the photograph. "About two years old," he said. That little corner-smile was back. "All gussied up."

"Nana bought me that dress," Roz said softly. "I wore it until it wouldn't fit anymore." She remembered her delight in the soft green velvet, the pretty lace and ribbons. "She always made sure I had at least one nice thing to wear. I found out years later that she threatened Mom with death by fire if she dared to do anything to those outfits. When I came to live with Nana and Poppi, she got me all new clothes, and shoes too. It wasn't really that much, but it seemed like she'd bought the whole store."

"This is you after you moved in with your grandparents." Greg tapped the photo on the other side.

"Yeah, senior picture. That's why I'm wearing a really hideous suit with football shoulder pads and have my hair all gelled up." Roz shook her head. "Fashion disaster."

"Times have changed," Greg said. He hooked a finger under her tank top and tugged gently. "You look good."

"Baloney," Roz said, amused. "Enough already. I need a shower. Coming with?"

Greg gave her a long, thoughtful stare. "Yes, dear," he said, obviously doing his best to look meek. Roz fought not to laugh.

"Hah. You just want some, using that sweet charm on me."

"Why do you always make that sound like a bad thing?" He shook his head, closed the album and put it on the coffee table next to the one his mother had sent. "Lead the way."

They spent a considerable amount of time wasting warm water and soap in pursuits other than washing up, but they both emerged at last, clean and happily spent. Greg toweled himself off, turned on the oscillating fan and lay stretched out on the bed. Roz joined him and rolled on her belly, her face turned toward him. She yawned and smiled when he cupped her left cheek with his palm. "Mmmm . . ."

"Too bad if you want more, I'm done for at least the next fifteen minutes."

"Liar. Half hour, more like." She purred as a callused thumb stroked her skin with a slow, gentle touch. Slowly she settled into a doze, lulled by the quiet and Greg's touch.

When she woke, she was alone. Blinking, she sat up slowly. After a moment she stood, rummaged through a drawer for shorts and a top, and went in search of her husband.

Greg was in the study at the computer, clad in cutoffs and a white tee shirt, a cold beer sweating into a coaster set perilously close to the mouse. Next to him on the desk lay the photo albums. He glanced at her as she came in. "About time you woke up," he said, and patted his leg. Roz took the invitation and perched on his left thigh; the right one was still a little too tender to bear her weight, though progress was being made. "Take a look." He clicked on a folder to reveal all the photos in each album scanned in, titled and numbered.

"Wow," Roz said, surprised by this gesture. She slipped an arm around his waist. "You've been busy."

"While you were snoring loud enough to wake Bob Gibbs, I transferred all the pictures to the computer. Now we can put those instruments of torture in the back of the closet where they belong."

"And now we can send some of them to your dad—"

Greg's smug smile faltered. "Uh—"

"—and back to your mother, and I bet anything your foster mom would love a set of those graduation photos, and so would Poppi—"

"La la la! Can't hear you!"

Roz kissed his cheek. "Nice try, but you're not dumping the albums and deleting the folder."

Greg shot her an offended look. "I _never_."

" Uh huh. Why don't we print out a couple on photo paper and frame them? They would look nice in here." Roz rubbed his hip. "I like those graduation pictures."

"Damn. Hoist on my own petard." He sighed. "Pictures in the office _only_. And if you send them to anyone else, I don't want to know about it."

She waited until he was ensconced on the couch with a beer and the remote, grumbling about the dearth of day games; then she sent an email with attachments to the parties she thought would be most interested, and added 'frames' to her shopping list.

It was early evening, just after dinner, when the phone rang. "Hello sweetheart!" Hawkeye sounded happy. "I got the email from you and Greg! The photos are wonderful! Thanks so much for sharing them with me! So I sent some of mine just to reciprocate, you know? I thought you'd like to add to the collection."

Roz checked her inbox after the call ended. Sure enough, he'd sent half a dozen pictures: a baby shot—she had to laugh at that same angry squint and lowered brow his infant son had sported several decades later—some grade-school age photos that revealed a boy as thin and lanky as Greg ever was, and a graduation portrait that made her heart catch. 'Goodbye Androscoggin, hello Boston' was captioned under it. The resemblance between father and son was more noticeable here, mainly in the facial features; but the attitude was much the same too. Roz studied it. It would be easy enough to print out and add to the others. She looked at the blank wall next to her, and imagined a small group of pictures hanging there—family gathered close . . . She added 'photo paper' to the shopping list, closed down the computer, and went out to join her husband on the couch.

_(Sta zitto_-'shut up'. Can also just be _zitto.)_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like baby pictures-embarrassing in quantity, but still a lot of fun! :) _**


	28. Chapter 28

**_(This is part one of this chapter. I'll post the second half on Thursday, lord willin' and the creek don't rise. -B)_**

_June 24th_

_7:30 a.m._

"_You're gonna do all right."_

_They sat together in the back yard where she'd met him three times before. It was no longer an anonymous meeting-place; the big shade tree and the white farmhouse, the sheds and barn showed it to be Greg's home. It was the start of a beautiful day, the sky above glazed with white cirrus clouds—mares tails, her grandmother had called them. _

"_Strong winds aloft__,__" she said aloud. That__ meant strong winds at the surface eventually._

"_Considering recent events, y__ou should be used to them by now." Greg sat in a comfortable lawn chair opposite her, settled into it as if he'd been there for a while. The morning sun slanted across the expanse of lawn behind him, the warm light soft on his rugged features. His hands were folded across his spare middle, a gesture habitual with him. "I don't know why you're worried." He looked down his nose at her. His eyes glittered with amusement, annoyance and a reluctant edge of affection. "You took me on and lived. Anyone else will be easy-peasy by comparison.__" _

_She stared at his wrists. They were encircled with scars, some clearly old, others more recent and still pink, though the skin was healed. __"What happened?"_

"_I can't believe you don't remember." In the blink of an eye his hands were tied to the arms with thick, rough rope; he wore the watch cap, ragged sweatshirt and pajama bottoms she'd first seen him in at Mayfield. He was thinner, his features gaunt and lined with pain, his glassy gaze defiant, hostile, and under it all, afraid. She drew in a breath, remembering that initial visit, and started to rise, intent on freeing him__._

"_See? Big change." And just that quickly, everything was as it had been. One corner of his mouth lifted a bit. __"Just this once I'll indulge you. You made a diffe__rence. All the difference. You'll do the same for plenty of other people, so stop freaking out__."__ He leaned forward just a bit. "Get busy, _Mom_."_

Sarah woke on the ghost of a chuckle. She shifted a little to ease her shoulders and turned her head, yawning. When she opened her eyes it was to find Gene sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. His thick dark hair was ruffled and there were bags under his eyes, but he was smiling. "Good morning," he said, and leaned in to kiss her. "Want a cuppa?"

He brought her back a steaming cup of tea, and coffee for himself. She set it aside to cool and lay back against her pillows. "What time is it?"

"Two hours before you need to be in the office for your first patient," Gene said. Sarah gave him a wry look.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." He looked her over. "Your hair needs a good wash."

She groaned. "I'll look like a curl factory explosion in all this humidity."

"Nah, we'll tame those frizzy locks of yours." He laughed when she gave his arm a light smack. "Half a bottle of that smoothing gel you like so much, and you'll be fine."

"Hope so," she said under her breath. Gene reached out and took her hand in his.

"Guaranteed. So, have you picked out what you're gonna wear?"

"I can sure tell you had an older sister." Sarah offered him a slight smile, trying to hide her nervousness. "No, I haven't. There's no need to get gussied up."

"Now there I disagree with you." Gene set his coffee aside and went to the closet. "You don't have to do wedding formal, but something pretty would boost your confidence and give everyone else a nice eyeful." He opened the door and looked over her choices. "Huh. This stuff is all at least two years old."

"My hubby the fashionista." Sarah picked up her tea.

"I want you to look nice." He extracted an item. "This is a good start."

"It's a broomstick skirt," she pointed out. "People will think I'm a hippy."

Gene looked shocked. "You're not?"

"Ha ha, you're the original laugh riot." Sarah sipped her tea and savored the dry, refreshing astringency. "Well . . . I guess it would be comfortable."

"Exactly. Pair it with that teal tank top you like, it'll pick up the color of the print." Gene laid the skirt on the bed. "Casual but still a couple of levels up from jeans."

"I could add my linen jacket." She hesitated. "Would it be too boho to wear my Birkenstock sandals?"

"Should be fine." Gene went to the chest of drawers and found the tank top. "You up for a shower?"

It was a laborious process, messing around with plastic bags and tape to protect the cast, made easier by her husband's help. And she got to ogle his naked form, which helped improve her mindset to a large extent. Even better, he used the hand-held showerhead to wash her hair. The streams of warm water felt good, easing the strain in her neck and shoulders.

"Much better," she said after he'd bundled her into her bathrobe.

"Scrubbed up and ready for the revolution." Gene kissed the top of her head and began to brush her hair, just as Jason peered around the corner of the doorway.

"Morning," he said, and disappeared.

"He's bringing breakfast," Gene said. Sarah looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

"You two are spoiling me."

"Yup." Gene kissed her again, this time on the forehead. "Get used to it today."

"This is not that big a deal," Sarah said.

"Well, yeah it is. Now, you want _au naturel_ or should I work in some of that no-frizz stuff?"

She was given a hand mirror to check Gene's work when Jason edged into the bedroom with an enormous tray. He wore an apron over his shorts and tee shirt, and his flushed face told its own story of hard work and shy pride in his offering—copious quantities of toast and jam paired with scrambled eggs and sausage, all cooked to a nicety and plated with an eye to appearance. Poppi's lessons were paying off.

"This looks great!" Sarah beamed at Jason, who rolled his eyes but accepted her praise all the same. "Grab a plate and dig in."

They enjoyed a leisurely meal in the quiet bedroom. Sarah ate some toast and watched her men demolish everything else.

"We'll drop you off and do some shopping in town, and then when you're done we'll go out for lunch." Gene put another spoonful of jam on his last bite of toast. Sarah gave him a hard stare. He'd sounded just a little too innocent on that last remark.

"This is _not_ a big deal," she said. "We can have lunch at home."

"We have a booth reserved at Poppi's," Gene said. He sent her a mild look, his green eyes full of amusement. "A little celebration is called for."

"It'll be fun," Jason said. He took the last of the sausages. "You might as well just give in, Mom. We have everything set up already."

Sarah couldn't help but laugh. "All right. I'll do my best to enjoy whatever torments you have in store."

"No, you'll see! It's gonna be great!" Jason ate half the sausage. "Poppi and I worked on it yesterday."

"Okay, no more giving away state secrets," Gene said. He reached out and stole the other half of the sausage, licking his fingers as he munched. "Come on, let's get this mess cleared up."

Half an hour later Sarah came down the stairs, her steps cautious as she gripped the banister and tried not to bang her cast into the wall. Another month before she could have the damn thing off, and then physical therapy after that; it couldn't get here soon enough. _We'll be shopping for school supplies and new clothes by then_, she thought. _Summer goes by so quickly_. The knowledge brought an unexpected sadness with it. To counter the feeling she decided to take a quick tour of the garden.

She was standing by the tomatoes, happily counting green fruit, when Greg said "Figures I'd find you out here."

Sarah turned. He watched her from the edge of the plot, his expression identical to the one he'd worn in her dream. Affection and concern filled her, so that without hesitation she came to him and slipped her good arm around him in a hug. After a moment he reciprocated, for a moment or two anyway. He even gave her an awkward pat on the back before releasing her.

"Scared?" He studied her, brows raised.

"Yeah."

"It's been a while. Well, at least for working in a formal setting." His gaze moved over her. "You look . . . approachable. I suppose that's what you were aiming at."

"I don't know. Gene picked everything out." She looked down at herself. "He did a good job. I still look like an idiot with this cast."

"But a well-put-together idiot." Greg offered her the crook of his elbow. "Time to go."

"You're coming too? Don't you have work to do?"

"It's Monday. You know I never show up before noon on Mondays." Greg opened the back door. "The wife and I will meet you later, when free lunch is offered. I'm going back to my house now, to watch porn and get ready for the festivities ahead with a cold beer."

"You're so full of it," Sarah said, and put a hand on his arm. "Thank you, son."

"Get inside," he growled, but that almost-smile was back.

The ride to the church was too short. Sarah watched familiar scenery go past and tried to use her breathing to calm down, but it wasn't working. She hated the paired sensation of anxiety and wearing a cast; it reminded her of childhood visits to the ER.

"Hey." Gene took her hand in his and spared her a quick glance. "Who do you see this morning?"

"Single mom with a three year old." She calmed a little. "After that, a girl. She's—she's fourteen."

Gene squeezed her hand. "They're lucky to work with you."

She managed a smile. "Sure hope they think so after the first session."

The office was ready and waiting. Several bouquets of flowers stood on the desk—summer lilies, freesias, ranunculus, daisies, a dozen yellow roses, and a pot of calendulas. With a hand that shook just a little, Sarah picked out the cards.

_Congrats and all my love to you, dear Sarah—Gordon Wyatt_

_All the best in your new practice, Dr. Goldman –Darryl Nolan_

_Good luck and DON'T break a leg! Love you—James and Kris_

_Congratulations and best of luck__—__Diane Wirth_

_Go for it—Roz and Greg_

_We love you—Gene and Jason_

Overwhelmed, she stared down at the messages, then tucked the cards in her purse. "Thanks," she said aloud. It sounded inadequate. She glanced at Jason. "Would you move some of these for me, please?"

At her direction he put them in various places around the office. Their cheerful colors added a charming note to the quiet calm of the room. "You could keep the calendulas on the windowsill," he said. "I'm really glad other people gave you flowers."

"Me too," Gene said, as if he hadn't had anything to do with letting those 'other people' know about her first day. "Okay, it's about time for us to head out. If you need anything, call. Pastor Ron's somewhere in the building too." He came up to give her a gentle embrace and a kiss. "It's like riding a bike," he said with a smile. "You'll see."

The office was too quiet after he and Jason left. Sarah turned on the player and popped in a CD—guitar music, peaceful and soothing. She did a quick check to make sure everything was toddler-proof and the little play area was well-stocked with sturdy toys and picture books. As she straightened things one more time, someone knocked at the half-open door. "Doctor Goldman?"

She took a breath. This was it. "Good morning. Come in," she said, and smiled as a young woman entered. A little girl clutched the woman's hand, her bright eyes wide with curiosity and apprehension. And just that quickly, Sarah knew it would be all right. "Have a seat."

By the end of the session the toddler was curled up asleep on her mother's lap and Sarah had the basics of the situation. "You don't know how good it is to have someone to talk with about this," the young woman said. She blinked away tears. "You don't know how it feels to have someone take you seriously."

"I understand," Sarah said, and meant it. "Our time is up, but we'll see each other again in a week. If you need to talk with me before then, you have my numbers, right? And the hotline number for the shelter?"

Her second client was far less willing to cooperate. The girl huddled in the chair, sullen, defiant, hiding behind a thick hank of hair hanging over her eyes. "When you're ready, we'll talk," Sarah said. "I was fourteen once too, though it was a while ago." She glanced at the calendula in the window. "I have a son about your age."

"Jason," the girl said. Sarah nodded, surprised.

"You know him?"

"I know he's not your kid." The words were harsh, accusatory.

"I didn't give birth to him, that's true. But as far as I'm concerned, he's my son in every way that matters. I love him." She smiled, thinking of his pride in cooking breakfast. "He's a freshman this year. You are too, aren't you?"

"Who cares? School sucks." The girl rolled her eyes.

"All of it, or just parts? I hated gym."

That got an uncertain stare. "Why?"

"Because everyone could see my scars." She kept her voice matter-of-fact. "I had a lot back then."

"So what, you cut or something?"

"Yeah, I did," she said simply. "Do you?" There was no reply. "Anything you tell me in this room is confidential."

"Bullshit." The girl looked away, but Sarah sensed a wavering.

"Okay. When you're ready, I'm listening."

They ended the session in silence. Sarah watched the girl scuttle off, shoulders hunched to fend off her mother's touch, and knew time, allied with patience and a willingness to listen, would breach those formidable walls. She remembered her dream from that morning and felt the last of her anxiety ease away; she took the laptop from her carryall, booted it up and began the familiar task of making notes on both cases.

She was nearly finished when her family showed up. "Hey." Gene stuck his head around the doorframe. "All clear?"

"Come on in." She sat back and tried not to appear as relieved as she felt. Gene came into the office, with Jason close behind.

"Well, look at you," he said softly. "Doctor Goldman is definitely in the house." He grinned at her. "Ready to celebrate?"

Sarah saved her work and closed down the computer. "More than ready."

_**Thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like flower bouquets-one's great, but more are always welcome :)**_


	29. Chapter 29

_**(This chapter is dedicated to my good friend glennie. -B)**_

The long summer afternoon is gently sliding into a gilded twilight as Greg finishes tying his shoe. He straightens and savors the ability to do so without having to flinch ahead of the pain, and sets his watch—the watch Sarah gave him a couple of Christmases ago, a runner's timepiece. He looks down at it, smiles just a little.

"Going for a run!" he yells to his wife, puts the earbuds in, and heads outside.

Heat rises from the earth as he stands in the back yard, stretching his muscles. This is a routine he never really paid much attention to back in the day; he followed it because it was the best way to prevent damage, but never considered how bad damage could ever be. He stretches his hamstrings, rotates first one ankle, then the other . . . and then, with care, he flexes his right leg, bending at the knee to rest some of his weight on his thigh and calf muscles. He closes his eyes at the sensation of the right quadriceps completing the move, smooth and pain-free, no hesitation. That feeling will never, ever get old or boring. A fierce exultation fills him. He resists the urge to pump his fist in the air, adjusts the volume on his iPod, and lopes down the drive.

The day may be fading, but the heat hasn't abated much. It doesn't take long before the neck of his tee shirt is damp with sweat. He doesn't care; he's paying more attention to the way his body starts to come alive under the pressure of exertion. His heart rate increases, breathing becomes deeper, more intense; muscles bunch and release as his brain registers the brush of his shorts against his knees, the impact of footfalls on the grainy bitumen road surface. The air he breathes in is redolent of fresh-cut hay, hot asphalt, the rank, fecund smell of green, growing things, fresh manure spread on the pastures nearby, and the scent of heat, indefinable but underlying everything else. He breathes it in, draws it all deep into his lungs, and enjoys the burst of energy the extra oxygen gives him.

He remembers his first run, some weeks back. He'd started off with a terrible fear lodged deep in his heart, a sharp flint laid against muscle and bone, waiting to cut and maim. What if he damaged the new quadriceps somehow? What if that new muscle isn't up to the demands even a short run would make?

"You won't know until you try, _amante_," Roz had said to him. She'd touched his cheek, then placed her hand over his thigh. "You have to do this."

She hadn't offered to go with him or follow in the truck; she'd known he had to face this on his own. And so he had, trembling deep inside as he took on the modest route he'd created, struggling to relax as he took step after step. About halfway in he'd realized not only was he not in pain, he felt loose, warm and ready for more. So he'd dared to push, adding another half-mile onto the route. When he returned home Roz was waiting on the back step. As he came into view she stood, her expression turning from anxiety to joy. She'd run to meet him then, slender legs pumping as she held out her arms in welcome and celebration.

Greg remembers those long legs wrapped around him later on, and grins. They drank _asti spumante_ that night and ripped up the sheets with lovemaking so fierce it sent Hellboy stalking off in indignation at all the noise they made. He'd forgotten how sweet it was to fall asleep in a welter of ripe aromas of sweat and sex, a pile of tangled limbs and delicious exhaustion, his nose buried in his lover's damp hair.

The memory spurs him to increase his speed a bit. He's about a quarter of the way through his route now, going deeper into the wilds of farms and meadows. The road here is more uneven, full of patched potholes and crumbling edges, the shoulders washed out and full of sharp cinders left over from the county road crew's attempt to mitigate winter's miserable driving conditions. The uncertain condition of the roadway adds another level of challenge; he has to pay more attention to where he puts his feet. That slows him down a bit, but when he checks his heart rate it's to find he's still in optimum range.

His thoughts drift a bit to the afternoon's festivities. They'd spent a couple of hours in Poppi's back room celebrating Sarah's first day back at work—and his return to running, as it happened. His shrink had been the one to bring it to everyone's attention, though of course the guests already knew; from the start he'd bragged about it to anyone within earshot. Might as well; whether or not they cared, he wanted to make sure they knew it was important to him.

"We have a far more important beginning to celebrate," Sarah had said. He remembered the light of pride and love in her eyes as she raised her glass of _asti_ to him. "Doctor House, congratulations on a successful clinical trial. No one deserves it more."

They'd all stood and joined in the toast; the applause and even cheers afterward had embarrassed but warmed him, because he knew they were sincere.

He's not quite halfway through now. The end of the paved road is in sight; nothing but dirt from here on out. He pauses for a moment, eyes the washboards and ruts full of water ahead. He hasn't gone into this area before, mainly because fear has kept him away. If he hits an uneven spot the wrong way it could undo everything he's accomplished. It's not that he won't be able to summon help—he's got his phone after all, and he's just minutes from home.

No, it's not about the physical condition of the route. It's about that cold little voice in the back of his brain that whispers _you can't do this, you're risking it all for nothing, this is as stupid and pointless as it gets. _It's no surprise to him that the voice sounds like John House's. During his childhood and youth he'd been lectured time and again for foolish behavior and reckless acts that had brought disaster trailing in their wake.

_Mama take this badge off of me_

_I can't use it any more_

_it's getting dark, too dark to see_

_and I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

Greg listens to Warren sing, feels the words sink down into his skin, like the fading light and heat all around him. Then he takes a long breath, lets it out, and moves forward.

The going is rough at first. He has to slow his pace, look down more than ahead, watch where he puts his feet. Soon his sneaks are soaked with muddy water and his calves ache with the strain. He thinks again of that first run, the initial dread in every step. He's lived with that fear for a long time now, a presence in everything he does, everything he says, always at the back of his mind. After the surgery, after he'd left the hospital and fought his way through endless, useless rounds of physical therapy, he'd run every test he could think of to find out what had happened. The results had only made things worse. There was no underlying disease, no condition, no genetic predisposition. His clotting factors were normal; he hadn't suffered an injury, not so much as a bruise. Statistically, that meant what happened was the equivalent of a random occurrence, an idea so abhorrent he'd pushed it away every time it popped into his head. But the fear it generated had remained and grown, unacknowledged but there all the same.

And then it happens. Despite his caution, his foot comes down on a rut and sends his ankle sideways. He struggles to stay on his feet, but the kinetic energy of his forward momentum shifts, and he goes down on his right side. The fear swells into panic as he lands with a thud in mud and rainwater and gravel.

_Mama put my guns in the ground_

_I can't shoot them any more _

_that long black line is comin' down_

_and I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door_

He lies there for a few moments, panting. He's terrified he'll feel the pain of torn muscle or ligament, so in a moment of supreme illogic he squinches his eyes shut and waits, shaking. Gradually he senses his hip is resting on a rock and is definitely not happy about that fact; his right calf is knotted up because his ankle is flexed . . . but that's all. His quad is okay. Soaked and smelling like rotted swamp water, but okay. He dares to open one eye and glance down. No blood, no pain, just mud splatters and wet shorts. After a moment the humor of the situation hits him and he starts to laugh, just a little at first, then full out. He lies back in the mud and stares up at the sky as he shakes for a different reason. When the tears fill his eyes he lets them. Fuck it, no one's here to see anyway.

After a while he gets up, brushes off as much muck as he can, wipes his hands on the last clean area of his shirt, and switches his playlist to classical. He chooses Mendelssohn, the violin concerto in E minor, a brilliant recording by Maxim Vengerov with Kurt Masur and the Leipzig Gewandhaus orchestra, and heads on down the road. He's got a little farther to go before he can turn around and head for home; he'd better get a move on while there's still enough light to see what he's doing.

"Get a move on," he mutters aloud, savoring the words. With a grin he cranks up the volume and plunges ahead.

It's nearly dark and the first stars are out when he finally makes it home. He stops in the driveway, checks his time and heart rate, then heads to the house. The warm yellow light spilling out of the windows beckons him forward. Through the last notes of the third movement of the Mendelssohn he hears Roz singing above the clatter of dishes and running water.

_three little birds perch by my doorstep_

_singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true_

_saying this is my message to you_

Even while he rolls his eyes at her taste in music, he still can't help but smile. He moves forward, his right hip a bit sore but everything else working just fine, and climbs the steps to head into the house.

Roz turns as the screen door opens. She freezes, dish towel in hand, her eyes widening as she surveys him. He says nothing, just turns off his iPod. Then he looks up at her, letting his smile widen, and she gets it, she gets it right away, just as he knew she would. Without hesitation she tosses the towel onto the counter and comes to him, envelops him in her embrace. When her mouth finds his he takes her kiss and returns it, his tongue stroking hers, his hands coming up to hold her close.

At last the kiss ends. Her hands come up to stroke the nape of his neck, then rest on his shoulders. "You stink to high heaven," she says, and a laugh trembles in her clear, dark voice.

"Don't care," he says. "Starving man here." He nuzzles her cheek. "_Starving_," he emphasizes, just in case there's some remote chance she doesn't understand. She pulls back to look at him. Her eyes shine like leaves in dappled sunlight. Oh, she understands all right, and returns his sentiment in full.

"Let's go wreck the sheets," she says, and leads him by the hand to the bedroom.

'_Knocking On Heaven's Door,' Warren Zevon (thanks to my friend purplepatty for giving me the idea to use the song)_

'_Violin Concerto in Em, Opus 64__,__'__ composer, Felix Mendelssohn_

'_Three Little Birds', Bob Marley_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Happy Fourth to all my American readers, hope you have a great day and a wonderful weekend :) _**


	30. Chapter 30

**_(Many thanks to all who have favorited my stories and/or me as author, and also left reviews. I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful, and hope you continue to enjoy the stories. It's still great fun to write them._**

**_Here's a new story recommendation for you: BabalooBlue's _Solace_. Check it out and please leave a review, it's well worth your time, as are her other stories. :) -B)_**

_July 4th_

_8:30 a.m._

Bright sunshine slanted in through the bedroom window, accompanied by birdsong, the distant sound of farm machinery, and the lowing of cows. Roz stirred, stretched a bit, and decided not to open her eyes just yet. While she was able to sleep in a bit more often now that she no longer worked for Kyle, it was still a rare enough occurrence to make it something to be savored. She yawned and rolled on her side. Next to her, Greg snored softly. She smiled a little at the sound. Since he'd started running on a regular basis, he slept for longer periods—longer by his standards, anyway-and woke feeling more rested. The result inevitably led to morning sex, a bonus both of them enjoyed.

On that thought she moved a little closer. The snoring stuttered, followed by a soft grunt. After a moment a hand slid along her side to cup her breast. She reciprocated by putting her hand on his hip. His skin was warm, the strong muscles beneath relaxed. Slowly she pressed her body close to his, felt his morning wood against her belly. Her smile widened.

They made love slow and deep, taking their time, tasting each other, stealing kisses as they moved together. When her climax filled her she tried to give it back to him. "_Ti amo_," she said against his lips, "_ti amo_," and savored his soft groan as he released, his body shuddering.

After a while she gently untangled her legs from his, got up and padded into the kitchen to make coffee, yawning as she measured grounds into the filter. When she returned to the bedroom it was to find Greg still on his side. She stopped in the doorway, enjoying the sight of him stretched out, those bright blue eyes gleaming with reluctant humor.

"Don't stand there all day, bring on the damn caffeine," he said. His voice was rough and deep, but it held a subtle caress. Roz came into the room and perched next to him as he sat up and reached out for one of the mugs. She'd made it strong, sweet and milky, the way he liked it at home. He took a large swallow and made a show of smacking his lips.

"Good sex, good coffee. Good breakfast to follow, I hope."

"Haven't gotten that far yet," Roz said, and leaned in to kiss him. He tasted of dark Italian roast and sugar. "Mmmm . . . let's go to Rick's instead. I have a craving for something buttery and sweet."

"That would mean we'd have to get dressed." He nibbled her bottom lip. "We have croissants in the bread keeper."

"So we do."

"And strawberry jam."

"That's true too." She nipped his lip gently. "Guess you'd better get busy."

"Me? Breakfast is a woman's job." He gave her a sidelong look to see if she bought it.

"It can be," she agreed. "That's if you decide you like your right hand better than making love to me for the next week or so."

Greg winced. "You're just mean," he said in an accusatory way.

"What a harsh thing to say, considering I gave you good sex when you woke up. And coffee." Roz sipped hers. "Your choice."

"It's no choice at all—oh, fuck it." He set aside his mug and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Where's my bathrobe?"

"You don't have to get dressed on my account." Roz held her mug in both hands and raised her brows. "I happen to like rugged mountain scenery."

Greg glared at her, lips twitching. Without comment he got to his feet and stumped out of the room. Roz admired the back view as he walked away. His voice floated back to her.

"You're nothing but a creepy Italian voyeur, you know!"

Roz chuckled. "When did I ever say I wasn't?"

She took a quick shower and put on shorts and a tank top. When she arrived in the kitchen it was to find Greg wearing her flowered apron while he made bacon and eggs in the skillet. Roz came up behind him and gave his butt cheek a generous pinch. "So round, so firm, so fully packed," she said. "My man has a gorgeous ass."

"I feel so degraded." He set the spatula aside and turned to face her, his lean features creased in a smile just this side of a smirk. "Nothing but a piece of meat to you."

"But a very decorative piece of meat." She put her arms around him. "Decent brain to go with that nice bod. I get the best of both worlds."

He returned her embrace, eyes glinting as he looked down his nose at her. "Damn right you do."

While Greg took his turn in the shower, Roz set the table and cleaned up the skillet and utensils, and turned on the radio. She placed the basket of croissants on the table and paused for a few moments, aware of a powerful, quiet joy deep within her, as strong and warming as the sunshine illuminating the table. Just a few years ago she would never have imagined even a moment of this morning's events, or if she did, they would have been in the form of some impossible daydream. Now here she was, loving and loved. There was some sadness behind the happiness, of course; the events of the previous fall still haunted her now and then. But the remembered sorrow only deepened the love she felt for the man who loved her in return.

Something bumped her leg. She looked down to find Hellboy butting his head against her shin. He lifted his head, golden eyes gleaming with what she recognized as a combination of affection and outright bacon lust. He was just as devoted to pig meat as her husband, and fully as cunning in using wiles to get what he wanted.

"I'm surrounded," she said, and reached down to twiddle the cat's ears before she picked a morsel of bacon off the platter to give to him.

She and Greg ate a leisurely meal, with the Heebster winding back and forth between them, begging for tidbits. It was a wonderfully lazy way to spend the morning, nibbling croissants with homemade jam and ogling her husband's good looks. In the morning light it was possible to see the lines that constant pain had left behind, but to her mind they only enhanced his strong, bony features.

"You keep staring at me. I feel like such a sex object," Greg whined, lips twitching. He gave her foot a token smack when she tickled his calf with her toes. "We're supposed to do the damn picnic today."

"And fireworks," Roz reminded him. She munched some bacon. "If you don't want to go, that's okay. We can stay home in the air conditioning, cook up some hot dogs and watch baseball on tv. Phils are playing the Pirates tonight, should be pretty good."

Greg squinted at her, his expression one of deep suspicion. "You already made a huge vat of potato salad."

"We can send it with Gene and Sarah." She ate the last bite of her croissant. "Whatever you want to do is fine with me."

"You're being very accommodating." He captured her foot and set it on his lap. Roz braced for reciprocal tickling and was surprised when he began to massage her instep, his touch gentle. She relaxed a little but kept her eye on him, wary of a trick.

"I'd like to do the picnic, but it's not a big deal," she said, and it was the truth. "Whatever you decide is fine with me. As long as I'm with you, that's all that matters." She winced inwardly at those last words; they sounded trite and sentimental. Still, she meant them. Greg said nothing. His lean fingers worked the ball of her foot, sending little jolts of aching release into her arch. "Mmmm . . ." She slid down in her chair a bit.

"A lazy day at home sounds good," Greg said. Roz closed her eyes and tipped her head back. She heard Hellboy's inquiring chirp before he jumped up into her lap. She smiled and stroked his head.

"Okay," she said. Greg's hands stilled.

"That's it?"

"Yeah." She cracked one eye open. "Why are you trying to start an argument? Do you really want to go?"

His thumb stirred, rubbed the soft flesh under her toes. "I want to know what _you_ want. Not the 'oh honey, I'm happy with whatever you decide' bullshit."

Roz knew a spurt of annoyance, followed swiftly by recognition. He was pushing her, testing limits; that meant for some reason he was feeling unsure of either her or himself. "What I want is to be with you," she said. "The picnic would be nice, but I'm not gonna be devastated if we don't go. Staying at home is fun too." She wiggled her toes. "Especially if you keep giving me foot orgasms."

He tilted his head, clearly amused. "'Foot orgasms'?" He stroked the outside edge of her big toe. "So I've got your bunions all astir."

Roz twiddled Hellboy's ears and was rewarded with a loud rumbling purr. "No complaints on my side of things."

"Guess not, if your pussy's purring." He leveled those vivid eyes at her, his gaze bright, searching. "You want to stay home, then."

"Fine by me," she said with perfect truth. Greg nodded.

"Picnic it is, then."

Roz rolled her eyes. "Brat."

"Hah. Thought you didn't care. Now the truth comes out."

She gently set the cat on the floor, sat up, reached out and took her husband's hands in hers, leaned in to kiss him. It was a sweet kiss, lingering and tender. When it was done she rested her forehead against his for a moment. And then she rucked up his tee shirt and trailed her fingers over his ribs.

"_Hey!_" He squirmed and pushed her away, got to his feet and fled to the doorway. "Not fair, using inside knowledge!" he hurled at her, but the light in his eyes told her she'd done the right thing. She arose and gave chase, to end up in the bedroom once more. They destroyed a nicely made bed and had to take a shower all over again, but since they took it together, neither had any objections.

It was a little after noon when they reached the park. Greg pulled Barbarella into the spot next to Minnie Lou and shut down the engine. "Time to jumpstart this party," he said, and glanced at Roz. "You ready?"

"I was born ready, _amante_," she said, just to make him chuckle.

They set up next to the Goldmans, of course. Mandy and Anne Faust were with them as well, and Rob Chase, Clare and her little ones. Roz looked over the group and hid a smile. Things had changed over the last few years; they had the largest gathering on the grounds, certainly the liveliest too. She unfolded the old quilt they kept for outings and spread it over the grass as Greg brought over lawn chairs and the beer cooler. He moved easily with only a faint hint of a limp, and that was mostly from the fading bruise on his hip. Roz hugged the knowledge to herself in delight and went off to get the other cooler they'd packed with food.

Soon enough they sat in the shade with beers and iced teas in hand. Gene had taken charge of the grills, with Jason and Mandy helping him. Roz brought over their offering—t-bone steaks marinated in olive oil, red pepper, garlic and fresh rosemary, with more rosemary wands for basting.

"I swear that man was a pyromaniac in another life," Sarah said on a laugh. She sipped her iced tea and rolled the bottle over her forehead. "Maybe in this one too."

"We'll get decent steaks out of his obsession, leave him alone," Greg said, and took a long swallow of beer. "You have an extinguisher handy, I presume." He eyed Josh as the toddler staggered close and grabbed his knee, then looked at him in innocent inquiry. "Beat it, kid."

Roz reached over and scooped up the little boy. "Hey sweetie," she said, and eased him onto her lap. He bounced and kicked and made an attempt to take her iced tea. "No, you can't have that, sweetheart. Are you thirsty?" She opened the cooler and rummaged for a bottle, aware Greg's gaze was fixed on her. "Here, drink this." She opened a small water and gave Josh a few sips while he babbled and tried to hold the bottle. Then he was down and off again, with Clare in pursuit.

"You little stinker," his mother said with exasperated affection. She took the bottle Roz offered her and settled on the blanket with Josh beside her, and Amy sleeping in her arms. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Roz said, and glanced at Greg, who looked away, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes—there one moment, hidden the next. Rob passed her and sat next to Clare, took Amy and reached out to snag Josh before he escaped.

"Steaks look good," he said to Greg, and gave Roz a slight smile. _He saw that look too_, she realized. "We brought the watermelon and some sweet corn."

"You've gone completely native," Greg said in an accusatory way, but there was no real heat behind it. "That'll come in handy eventually." This cryptic remark was greeted by a grin from Rob and a blush from Clare, who busied herself with the diaper bag. Sarah sipped her iced tea.

"He still hasn't played in the pickup game." She gave Rob a considering look, her sea-green eyes sparkling with humor. "I bet he's a power hitter. Probably throttles way down on the bat."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Rob said calmly. His blue eyes gleamed under their lids. "Don't plan to find out, either."

"That sounds like a challenge," Greg said. "Bet you couldn't hit even a slow underhand pitch."

"Oh, I don't know," Sarah said. "Don't be too hard on him, son. Someone has to take my place since Jason's partnered up with Gene. I think Rob would be a good substitute."

Rob exhaled through his nose. It was so much like Greg's signal for loss of patience that Roz had to hide a smile. "Not interested."

"You and Roz planning to play?" Sarah wanted to know. Greg sat back.

"That's up to the wifey," he said, and finished off his beer, stuck the empty bottle in the cooler, and reached for another. He popped the top on the arm of the lawn chair and tossed the cap at Roz. "It's her call."

Roz fielded the bottle cap and tucked it in her pocket. She gave Greg a level look. "You don't need me to run for you now." The knowledge both delighted and saddened her.

"You're still faster than me," Greg said. His gaze flickered over her, then away. She got it then; he was setting aside his own triumph to continue their partnership. The enormity of what he was really saying took her breath for a moment. She stared at the quilt and blinked back sudden tears.

"Okay," she said quietly, and didn't dare to risk more words because her voice wasn't steady. After a moment Greg's hand came to rest on the back of her neck. His thumb stroked her nape, slow and gentle.

A little later they ate steak and potato salad and fresh watermelon, and then dozed in the shade for an hour or two to let lunch digest. It was heading into late afternoon when the call for teams went out. Rob gave Greg a resigned look but said nothing, just got up and trudged off to the playing field.

"How I've missed the sweet musk of rising anxiety," Greg said, watching the younger man. Roz gave his leg a light smack.

"_Buffone_. He might just surprise you. Come on, let's go."

The choosing of teams had just begun when they arrived on the field. Roz saw the way both managers faces lit up when she and Greg appeared, and knew a moment of pride.

"They're mine," Rick announced. Jay glared at him. He'd taken over as manager this year for the other Rob, who was off on vacation in Maine.

"We get to choose," Greg said, arrogance shining out of every word. "And we choose the other shmuck."

"_Why?_" Hands on hips, Rick returned Jay's glare.

"No reason, except it pisses you off." Greg bared his teeth. "Gonna bitch or play?"

"Liar," Roz said when they moved away to warm up. "You chose the same team as Rob."

Greg sent her an offended look but said nothing. He chose a pair of bats and began to swing them around his shoulders, making sure to do so in clear view of Rob, who watched him for a few moments, then picked up a bat and followed his example, tentative at first, and then with growing confidence.

The lineup was set, and the game began. Gene was first up, facing Rick's opening pitch. It scorched by him as he waited, ignoring the ump when she called a strike. The second pitch was also declared a strike, with vociferous objections from Jay. Third time proved to be the charm, however. Gene hit a double and managed to make it a triple by taking a chance on stealing third. He grinned at Roz and Greg, who were up next. Roz took her place at Greg's side. A sense of pride filled her. They made a good team in everything they did together; she would never take that knowledge for granted, because she'd never really experienced it with anyone before.

A moment later that partnership was tested when Rick pitched a blazing fast ball. She was primed to run when she saw Greg pull his swing. He was rewarded with "Ball!" from the ump and a growled curse from Rick. She dared a glance at Greg. He didn't look at her, but he rotated his shoulder a bit and took up his stance. She knew the next one was destined to go out of the park.

And it did. Gene was headed for home and she was on her way to first as the ball tore across the diamond, outfielders scrambling to get back far enough, to no avail. By the time she reached third someone had climbed over the fence and hurled the ball back into play, but it was far too late. She slapped home plate with her foot just as Rick turned to throw it in. She ran to Greg and spun him around with momentum, the two of them laughing, delighted with their prowess. Then he kissed her, and the sweetness of it filled her like oxygen, potent and life-giving.

She ran for him once more, with equal success. When the game was over she stood in line for ice cream with her husband, who piled several enormous scoops of Creamy Vanilla Bean into his bowl and doused it all with chocolate syrup and roasted nuts. He loved tin roofs, especially if she provided him with salted Spanish peanuts; now he sat next to her and devoured the treat while she made do with a little Death By Chocolate and colored sprinkles.

"You did okay for a wuss," Greg informed Rob. The younger man paused, a dripping spoonful of Double Butter Pecan and caramel sauce halfway to his mouth.

"_Wuss?_ Don't think so. I hit it out of the park."

"Fouled it out." Greg licked chocolate sauce from his finger. "Had to turn you around to get you to hit it the right way. Must be from growing up down under."

"Must be because I'm a left-handed hitter," Rob said with a chuckle. He offered Clare a taste of his ice cream. "Weird game, but I could learn to like it."

They stayed for the fireworks, of course. Roz sat next to Greg and noticed Jason sitting with Mandy. They were talking, heads together over Mandy's smartphone. _They haven't realized they love each other_, Roz thought. _Well, Mandy knows more than Jason does, but they're still just good friends. Things won't be the same when they go back in the fall, though. High school changes everything. _She shivered a little, remembering her years alone, with only Poppi and Nana to rely on.

"What?" Greg asked softly. She shook her head.

"Old . . . old ghosts, I guess."

He said nothing but brought her a little closer, his breath warm on her cheek.

The ride home was a quiet one. Neither of them spoke, just enjoyed the soft music from the radio under the throaty rumble of Barbarella's engine. Roz was tired, but in a good way—not the exhaustion she often felt at the end of a long day of work, but a welcome sense of energy expended on good times and closeness.

Hellboy was waiting at the door, loud in his complaints at the lack of food in his bowl. Roz fed him while Greg put the leftovers in the fridge. "We'll be eating potato salad for a month," he grumbled.

"Take it to work," Roz said, and put the Heebster's bowl down on the mat. "It'll disappear like snow in July."

"There's a thought." Greg shoved the beer into the bottom shelf, took a bottle and shut the door. "Meet me at the couch," he said in her general direction, and disappeared into the living room. Roz knew he wanted to catch the last few innings of the Phils playing Pittsburgh; it would be a slugfest of epic proportions, but as far as she was concerned, nothing compared to their efforts earlier that day. Her hand went into her pocket, felt the bottle cap still nestled there.

_Best team around_, she thought, and enjoyed the warmth that knowledge brought. With a smile she retrieved a beer for herself and joined him.


	31. Epilogue

**_(This is the end of Opening Day. There are more stories to come in the Treatment 'verse, but I need a little time off to refill my writing stock pot and finish up other projects in the real world. I'm taking the rest of July and all of August off, but will return in September with the next story. Hope everyone has a good month! _**

**_'See you in September . . .' -Brig)_**

_July 12th_

_9:30 a.m._

Jason finished stirring the marinara and used a clean spoon to taste it. He rolled the sauce around his tongue, then added another generous pinch of salt and a little garlic, blended it in, and put the cover on. The pizza dough was ready to knead, so he washed his hands, set to work and glanced at the book propped up next to the work area.

"Bones of the foot," he said aloud. "Distal phalanx, middle phalanx, proximal phalanx . . ." He folded the dough, pushed it down with the heels of his hands and gave it a quarter turn, folded, pushed and turned, finding the rhythm quickly. "Metatarsal, tarsal, cuneiforms, cuboid . . . Bones of the ankle: talus, calcaneus, tibia, fibula . . ." The words came easily, fitted in with kneading. Better still, now he could see each bone as he named it, where they were situated, how they worked, separately and together. The ability made him both proud and anxious. He'd learned a lot, but it had only shown him the vast amount of knowledge waiting for him.

"Hey," Poppi Lou said from the doorway. He looked a little tired, but he gave Jason a smile. "How's the marinara? You tasted it, right?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "Needed a little salt and garlic."

"Good boy. When you're done with the dough, get the cheese ready and slice some extra tomatoes for the bain-marie. If you need me I'll be cooking the books." Poppi chuckled at his joke as he always did, and disappeared. Jason rolled his eyes, but he didn't really mind the lame attempt at humor. It had already become a ritual, one he kinda liked. He slapped the dough to test it; another minute or two and it would be ready to set aside to rise while he took care of the cheese and tomatoes. He'd check the lettuce in the bain-marie too, in case it needed replacing . . . He glanced at the book.

"Bones of the lower leg . . . lateral malleolus, medial malleolus, fibula, tibia . . ."

He named off all the groups, then went through them again without the book as he cut up the tomatoes, washed and tore up some lettuce, and wiped down the slicer so it would be ready for the sandwich meats. He wasn't old enough to run it yet, but he could set it up and take it apart.

The dough was in its container with the timer set and he was shredding mozzarella when he heard an odd noise. Frowning, he shut off the processor. Above the hum of the soda cooler he caught what sounded like a sort of groan or sigh. He wiped his hands, unplugged the processor and went down the hall to the office to investigate.

Poppi sat at his desk, but he wasn't working. He looked pale, and there was sweat on his forehead and upper lip. When Jason came in he passed a hand over his face. "Shouldn't have had that second _espresso_ this morning," he said. "Making my stomach acid come up."

An odd sense of wrongness sent a tingle down Jason's spine. He moved closer. "Does anything hurt besides your stomach?"

"I'm fine." But Poppi rubbed his arm a little as he spoke. That was enough for Jason. He picked up the phone and dialed 911.

"I think my boss is having a heart attack," he said when the operator answered, and glanced at Poppi. The older man had his eyes closed and looked even worse than he had a few minutes ago. The lack of protest told Jason he'd done the right thing.

It felt like it took forever to give the woman the address and information she needed, but finally she was saying "The crew's on the way. If you have any aspirin and you know your boss isn't allergic to it, try to give him one. I'm going to stay on the line with you until the guys get there."

"The front door's locked but the back kitchen door is open," Jason told her.

"Okay, I'll make sure they go to the back."

Jason rummaged in the top right side drawer of the desk. Poppi took an aspirin every day after lunch, and there was a new bottle of pills. Jason knew that Poppi took one daily because he'd joked about it after he'd added them to the grocery store list, when he sent Jason down for some onions after they'd run out unexpectedly a couple of days ago. "A little insurance never hurts," he'd said with a smile. That had started a discussion about aspirin regimens, one Jason had taken up with Rob the next day.

Now Jason checked the dosage on the bottle. Eighty-one milligrams—a quarter of the recommended dose for someone suffering a potential heart attack. He could probably get Poppi to chew two pills, but the bitterness would be too strong to get him to take more. Anyway, half a dose was better than none. "I'm giving him the aspirin," he told the operator.

Poppi made no protest as Jason put the pills in his mouth. He chewed and grimaced, but swallowed and managed a sip of water as well. "Call Roz," he said weakly. "Let her know."

"I will," Jason promised, and felt a huge wave of relief as he heard the EMTs coming in the back door.

"Hey Jason." It was Bill, the day shift leader for the EMTs; Jason knew him from his occasional visits to the clinic. He moved over to Poppi and began to check his pulse and breathing as his partner, Ed, got the gurney out of the back of the rig. "Mister Lombardi, we're gonna take you to the medical center and get you looked at, okay?"

"He just took two aspirin," Jason said, and showed Bill the bottle. Bill nodded.

"That's good, really good. Thanks for telling us."

With the ease of long practice the team quickly had Poppi ready to go. "Call Roz and Doctor House," Bill said. "Are you okay here? You can ride in with us."

Jason hesitated. "I'd better stay," he said. There was nothing he could do at the hospital anyway, though he wanted to be at Poppi's side. At least here he could keep an eye on things.

"Okay. We'll call as soon as we get there and let you know what's going on." And they were gone. Jason watched the ambulance head out, lights and sirens on, and suddenly felt very alone. He took out his phone and looked at the list, hit the first number.

"Hey sweetheart," Mom said. "How's work?"

"Mom . . ." He closed his eyes. "The EMTs just took Poppi to the hospital. I think he's having a heart attack."

Mom didn't hesitate. "Dad and I are on our way."

He called Roz next. She listened without interrupting as he told her, then said "I'm headed to the center. I'll call Greg. Thank you, Jason," and was gone.

His parents came in about five minutes later, just after the call from Bill letting Jason know they were at the center; he was so glad to see them he almost ran to the door. Mom put her good arm around him. Jason hugged her back, ashamed to find tears in his eyes. Dad put a hand on his shoulder, rubbed it gently.

"Let's go sit down, and you can tell us what happened," he said quietly, and led them to one of the booths by the kitchen entrance.

"You did exactly the right thing," Dad said when Jason finished. "You stayed calm, you helped Poppi, and you called 911. You probably saved his life." He put his arm around Jason. Nothing had ever felt so good, comforting and safe. "I'm proud of you, son."

"Me too," Mom said, and leaned in to kiss Jason's cheek. He squirmed in mortification, but part of him was glad for the reassurance. "I'll see if I can find out how things are going."

"I don't know what to do about the restaurant," Jason said as Mom went off to make the call. "I can't run it by myself, but I don't think Poppi would want it to be closed. We have a couple of t-ball teams coming in at lunchtime for pizza and drinks."

"We'll talk with Sarah when she comes back," Dad said. "She doesn't have office hours today. If she's willing to take orders and run the register, we could keep the place open at least through lunch. You and I know how to make pizza and I can run the fryer."

"You can?" Jason gave Dad a surprised look.

"Yeah, I can. Worked at a burger stand the summer before my senior year, and got stuck at the fry station the whole time because no one else wanted to do it." Dad smiled. "Poppi's taught you how to make pizza, right?"

"Yeah. The dough and sauce are ready. We need more cheese shredded but I can do that. The bain-marie's stocked up too." Jason took a deep breath; he felt nervous and excited at the same time. "You think we could do it? Run everything?"

"We can try."

"Sandesh says Lou's stabilized and doing well," Mom said when she came back. "They're going to keep him in the ER while they run some tests, and then he'll be moved to a bed for observation. Roz is with him and she says Greg's coming over to sit with her for a while." She sat down next to Jason. "So where do we go from here?"

They filled her in on their tentative plan. Mom agreed to it without hesitation. "I'll need help getting orders to the table, though."

"We could call in Marge—uh, Mrs. Hamilton," Jason said. "It's her day off but I bet she'd help out, at least during lunch."

Marge showed up even faster than Mom and Dad had, after Mom called her. "Oh, Jason, you sweet boy! I knew Lou did a good thing when he brought you in to work for him," she said, and gave Jason a fierce hug that both embarrassed him and made him feel better at the same time. Dad grinned at him behind Marge's back.

"Oh Jason, you sweet boy," he gushed in a cracking falsetto when Marge was out of earshot. Jason rolled his eyes.

"_Dad_," he groused, but he didn't mind being teased. It was something normal in a day that had turned out to be anything but that.

Somehow they were ready when both t-ball teams showed up an hour or so later. It was madness for the first ten minutes, and then the confusion settled into orders and the process of getting everything done. Jason felt the tension in his gut relax with the familiar routine of tossing dough, putting on the ingredients, and slipping pies into the oven. Dad was as good as his word and after a couple of test batches, turned out fries and chicken nuggets of crispy perfection; he even helped cut the pizzas. Mom ran the register and brought in orders while Marge hustled them out in record time.

Eventually both teams left, along with most of the lunchtime customers. Jason made a pizza for their own lunch, while Dad fixed a double order of fries and Marge poured some iced teas.

"You have study time with Rob at the clinic, don't you?" Mom asked when they all sat down to eat. Jason paused with a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. He checked the clock above the sink.

"In an hour," he said, and set the slice down, his appetite vanished. "Maybe I should—should call . . ."

"You know Poppi would want you to go," Mom said quietly. "We can put a note up on the door that we're closed until four-thirty. On a weekday there's hardly any customers in the afternoon anyway, after lunch."

"So we're gonna stay open through supper?" Dad dipped a fry in ketchup and munched. "I'm game if the rest of you are."

"Fine by me," Marge said, smiling. "I can go home, take a nap and come back. Works out perfect."

"Yeah," Jason said. He picked up the slice and ate a large bite while he considered. "Yeah, we could do it, as long as we stick to what we did for lunch—simple things, pizza and fries, sandwiches."

"We can make up a special menu, print it out," Mom said. "Just basics." She sipped her tea. "There's more to talk about, but it'll keep till later."

When lunch was done and cleared, Dad drove Jason to the clinic. "I'll be back at four. Call if you need anything, okay?"

The walk to the back door seemed to take forever. Jason slung his book bag over his shoulder and opened the door, slipped inside. McMurphy saw him first. She came over and put a hand on his shoulder, her expression sober, but there was affection in her dark eyes. "Good work," she said, and patted him gently. "Tough situation, you handled it well."

"Thanks," he mumbled, and wished he didn't blush so easily. McMurphy gave him a slight smile.

"Go ahead and set up shop. I'll bring you a treat."

He was sitting at the conference room table with his books spread out, munching the cookies McMurphy had brought him, when House said from the doorway "Enjoying your time in the spotlight?"

Jason felt his face grow warm once more. "I'm not in a spotlight," he said. "I didn't do anything."

"Aww, modest too." The mockery hurt.

"I didn't do _anything_!" He glared at House. "The EMTs had to take care of him, I didn't know how." The words dried up in his throat. He looked away. There was a brief silence.

"Jason." House waited until he looked before he spoke again. "You did what you could, given your level of knowledge." He came into the conference room. "Now that we've settled that issue, let's get busy."

"Where's Rob? Why aren't you with your wife?" Jason dared to ask. House narrowed his eyes. They glittered like frost.

"Not here and none of your damn business, junior. That's all you need to know." He booted up the desktop used for information searches. After a moment music filled the room—Johnny Young singing 'Keep Your Nose Out of My Business', one of Dad's favorites. Jason had even heard the band play it during practice. House plunked into a chair and propped his feet on the table, then nodded at the books. "Time for some review. Close 'em."

Jason did as he was told, his heart pounding. Rob was usually willing to let him do an open-book quiz, and didn't pounce on mistakes. House would not be so accommodating. He'd probably rip him to shreds.

"Bones of the foot." House recrossed his ankles. "Go."

Jason took a breath, drew up the mental image of a foot. After a moment the names came to him, and he almost smiled.

"Bones of the foot," he said. "Distal phalanx, middle phalanx, proximal phalanx . . ."

An hour later—an eternity, by Jason's reckoning—the grilling ended. House had taken him over every bone, skipped from one group to another, made him recite the order backwards, even used a chart to spot-quiz him. By the end Jason felt like he'd run a marathon, but he'd held his own. He didn't say anything however, just waited.

"Muscles next," House said. He reached out, flipped open the battered copy of Gray's Anatomy. "It's easy to see the bones, how they work, fit together. They're simple, for the most part. Muscles, different story." He pushed the book toward Jason. "We'll see how much you can learn in a week."

Jason nodded. "Okay." He waited to see what came next. House folded his hands across his middle.

"If you're so fired up to help out, learn CPR and basic first aid," he said. "Next time someone keels over or cuts off a finger in the kitchen, you'll know what to do." He stared hard at Jason. "Heard you're running the restaurant."

"Mom, Dad and Marge are doing that," Jason said in total truth. "I just make the pizza."

House continued to stare. After a moment he snorted and looked away. "The old man's holding his own. He's got a blocked artery, but we can fix that." He brought his feet down. "Muscles, next week," and he took himself out of the conference room. Jason watched him go, confused, pleased and apprehensive all at once.

He was quiet when Dad came to pick him up. "How'd it go?" Dad wanted to know.

"I'm . . . not sure," Jason said slowly. "I did okay, but . . ." He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, aware he was tired.

"It'll sort itself out," Dad said, and patted Jason's knee. "You'll see."

The evening went fast. The restaurant was busier than usual, mainly with locals trying to find out what had happened and how Poppi was doing. Jason barely had time to eat his own dinner; he managed to wolf down a sandwich and some Coke between orders, but it wasn't until they closed for the evening—an hour later than usual, and with a lot of prodding people out the door in the nicest of ways—that he had a chance to relax a little.

"We still have to clean up," he said.

"An hour, tops," Dad said. He went out with the serving cart to collect dishes and silverware, whistling. Mom shook her head. She looked worn out, but she was smiling.

"I think he's enjoying himself." She sat next to Jason and slipped her good arm around him. "Let's finish this last bit and go home, okay? We can sleep in tomorrow."

After they sent Marge home Jason worked with Dad to wash up and put things away, while Mom made a list of things they needed for the next day. They were almost done when Roz came in with Greg. She came straight to Jason and enfolded him in her embrace. He could feel her trembling. After a few moments she eased back but continued to hold him.

"Thank you," she said, and kissed his cheek. "thank you so much, Jason. You saved Poppi's life, and then you kept things going here, you and your parents. Poppi and I will never forget this."

Jason thought they could probably see his blush all the way to the International Space Station. "You're welcome," he mumbled, and caught House's sardonic glance. He looked away and sighed silently as Roz gave him a final hug and stepped back.

"It's late," Mom said. "I suggest we meet here tomorrow morning and talk about how to run the place until Lou gets back." She paused. "We all know there are changes coming," she said quietly. "Better to face that now and deal with it."

"What kind of changes?" Jason asked on the way home.

"Poppi's been doing too much by himself. He needs someone to manage the place, take over the day-to-day operations. You can't do more than you're doing, sweetheart," she said when Jason started to speak. "You've got your studies and music, and you need some time to just goof off too." She rubbed his arm gently. "For now we can all pitch in while we help Lou look for someone he can work with."

"Sare, you've pitched in enough," Dad said. "I want you to stay home tomorrow and rest. I know lugging that cast around tires you out."

"It comes off in two weeks." Mom sounded annoyed. "I'm fine."

"You're takin' tomorrow off. End of discussion." Dad pulled the minivan into the driveway. "Marge will be in and now that Lou's settled, he'll probably send Roz over to work with us for a while anyway. We'll do okay."

They were still arguing when Jason went to bed, but he sensed it was more bargaining than an out-and-out disagreement. He dumped his clothes on the floor, turned on the fan and lay down. Stretching out felt like pure heaven; to do nothing but relax was a luxury he'd never recognized as such before. He probably should have taken a shower, he could smell the fryer grease and pizza sauce on his skin and in his hair, but he was so tired he didn't care. He rolled on his side and closed his eyes. Changes . . . _Yeah,_ he thought before sleep pulled him down. _Changes for all of us . . . hope they're good ones._

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. Reviews are like summer days-you can never have too many :) _**


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